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A 

BOOK OF NARRATIVES 



EDITED BY 
OSCAR JAMES CAMPBELL, JR. ^ 

ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH, UNIVERSITY OF WISCONSIN 



RICHARD ASHLEY RICE 

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH, SMITH COLLEGE 



D. C. HEATH & CO., PUBLISHERS 

BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 






^l\3 



Copyright, 1917, 
By D. C. Heath & Co. 

2G8 



Exchange 
Sons Arner.Rev-Llby 
Feb. 25 1*36 



PRINTED IN U. S. A. 



PREFACE 

The editors of this book of narratives have one object in 
view — to lead the reader to see life closely and imaginatively. 
It is not especially planned as a guide for young writers who 
want to sell their first attempts to the omnivorous magazines; 
and we much doubt if any one will learn from it the temporary 
tricks for turning out "current fiction." 

The aim of all great literature is to interpret life, and the 
special aim of fiction is to see life imaginatively. Emile Zola 
once said that all a novel can hope to be is a corner of nature 
seen through a temperament. To inculcate something of this 
supreme art of seeing life, by the methods of fiction, is the 
purpose of the present collection. 

As we understand it, the purpose of writing courses in 
college, especially while drill in correct usage goes on, is to train 
the logical powers. We believe that there can be no better 
training in logic than that which exercises the faculties for 
close observation of life and for constructive imagination. Our 
commentary and notes are entirely devoted to defining and 
illustrating this exercise. We hope that the book will also 
be of help in the general study of fiction. 



CONTENTS 

PART I. WHAT IS A STORY? 



Introduction: What is a Story ? 

I. The Piece of String . . . Guy de Maupassant 

II. Rhyolitic Perlite .... Paul Palmerton 

III. Malachi's Cove Anthony Trollope . 

IV. L'Arrabbiata Paul Heyse . . . 

V. The Cask op Amontillado Edgar Allan Poe . 

VI. La Grande Breteche . . Honore de Balzac . 



3 
16 

25 
31 
55 
77 
85 



PART II. HOW TO SEE A STORY IN EVERYDAY LIFE 

Introduction: How to See a Story in Every- 
day Life 109 

VII. The Fiancee Marguerite Audoux . 118 

VIII. A Page from the Doctor's 

Life F.W. Stuart, Jr. . . 122 

* IX. The Necklace Guy de Maupassant . 127 

X. To Fool the Ignorant . . Ernest L. Me er . . 137 

XI. Wellington Charles M. Flandreau 143 

XII. Left Behind Arthur Ruhl .... 156 

XIII. The Chaperon A Ita Brunt S embower. 177 

PART III. HOW TO SEE LIFE IMAGINATIVELY 

Introduction: How to See Life Imaginatively 203 

XIV. In the Firelight .... Margaret Thomson . 210 
XV. City Smoke Booth Tarkington . . 214 

XVI. Scenes in Factories . . . Margaret Richardson. 219 



CONTENTS 



XVII. The Spirit of a Great City Robert Herrick . 
XVIII. Thunder and Lightning . Thomas Hardy . 
XIX. Gerard and the Bear . . Charles Reade . 
XX. Tad Sheldon, Second Class 

Scout John Fleming Wilson 251 

XXI. The Glenmore Fire . . . Robert Herrick ... 270 



235 
240 
246 



PART IV. HOW TO DESCRIBE CHARACTER 

Introduction: How to Describe Character 
XXII. The Brooke Sisters . . . George Eliot . . 

XXIII. The Baines Sisters . . . Arnold Bennett . 

XXIV. Annixter Frank N orris. . 

XXV. Bathsheba and Gabriel 

Oak Thomas Hardy . 

XXVI. Eugenie and Old Grandet Honore de Balzac 

XXVII. Francois Villon R. L. Stevenson . 

XXVIII. A Lodging for the Night R. L. Stevenson . 



279 
289 
298 
312 

329 
347 
363 
368 



PART V. HOW TO PRESENT A MORAL ISSUE 

Introduction: How to Present a Moral Issue 393 

XXIX. The Greater Love . . . Bartimeus 402 

XXX. Vis et Vir Victor Hugo . . . .418 

XXXI. A Dead Issue Charles M. Flandreau 430 

XXXII. The Captain's Vices . . . Francois Coppee . . 457 

XXXIII. A Coward Guy de Maupassant . 469 

XXXIV. Bazarov's Duel Ivan Turgenev . . . 479 

XXXV. An Unfinished Story . . 0. Henry ..... 490 



PART I 
WHAT IS A STORY? 



PART I 

INTRODUCTION 
WHAT IS A STORY? 

i. Plot 

A story is composed of the imagined or actual facts of life 
arranged in such a way as to make human conduct more intelli- 
gible and more entertaining than it is to the ordinary observer. 
A story is always more than a mere copy of reality. In life 
events follow one another; but except for this line of sequence 
they often remain formless. A narrative which merely follows 
the continuity of life does not necessarily have plot. A strictly 
chronological account of a day's excursion or picnic may well 
be such a narrative. As soon, however, as the stuff of experi- 
ence is deliberately composed so that it tells a story, it forms a 
narrative with plot. Plot, then, is the formative and essential 
element of any real story. 

Many students believe what they call the "invention" of 
a plot to be a supremely difficult task. It is, of course, difficult 
to be logical. But inventing a plot demands only a logical 
consideration of what one sees and hears in everyday existence. 
It demands, that is, a curiosity about cause and effect beyond 
what is superficially evident. To the mere observer life is but 
a spectacle. It is a moving picture for which no explanation 
has been provided. As soon as the observer begins to think 
logically about the show of life before him at any given moment 
he begins, consciously or not, to plot it. He cannot know, 



4 WHAT IS A STORY 

of course, all of the past which controls the event he perceives, 
nor can he divine the actual future it will create. Yet he 
knows that the event has had a past and will have a future. 
He then calls upon his logical faculty, or, as some prefer to 
say, his imagination, to create facts as nearly as possible like 
the reality which his logical curiosity desires. In other words, 
with the help of his imagination he constructs a plot in which 
the spectacle that arrested his attention will appear as part 
of a piece of fiction. 

This method of transforming part of the show of life into a 
story may be illustrated by assuming that the initial impulse 
toward the composition of Maupassant's story, A Piece of 
String, was observation of a specific event. If you saw a 
a shabby old peasant stoop to pick up something in the road and 
noticed that he was full of confusion at being detected, and 
then, if you thought nothing further about the incident, you 
would be regarding it merely as a spectacle. But if you had 
said to yourself, "I'll wager that old fellow has found a purse 
and that he doesn't want me to know it," you would have 
been at the beginning of a series of inferences which could 
lead to the plot of A Piece of String. You might proceed by 
asking yourself a number of questions. "What kind of fellow 
is the old peasant? What gave him that crafty and wary 
look? What was it he picked up, anyway? It might have 
been a worthless object, a pretty stone, or even a piece of string. 
Well, he would never be able to convince anyone who saw his 
furtive glance that he had not found something valuable. If 
I had lost a purse, I should know that he had found it. I should 
laugh at him if he asserted that the object he picked up was only 
a piece of string. Yet supposing he were innocent, would not 
such scorn as mine at his protestations of innocence worry the 
stupid old fellow literally almost to death?" 

In reflecting in this fashion, you have simply given free 
rein to a natural curiosity. Yet in answering these questions 



PROBLEM S 

satisfactorily to your experience of life and accepting the sug- 
gestions as imaginative truth, you will find yourself equipped 
with all the necessary elements of a plot. Sustained and 
logical reflection upon any clearly marked incident is pretty 
sure to provide the mind with material which may readily be 
arranged to form a plot. The path from incident seen, heard, or 
read, to a plot is but one of the courses which lead the mind 
naturally to the construction of facts necessary to a piece of 
fiction. 

2. Problem 

Every story which is not the mere exhibition of a quaint 
character — that is, a character sketch — presents some 
problem. This does not mean that every story must teach a 
moral lesson or suggest desirable conduct. It means that every 
piece of fiction illustrates what the author believes to be some 
general truth about life. Indeed, the desire to present such a 
truth may be the initial impulse toward writing a story. Let 
us suppose that Maupassant from his reflective observation of 
fife had arrived at the belief that many people suffer cruelly 
from unjust suspicion. The irony of his own futile efforts to 
explain away some unmerited accusation by the trivial and 
inadequate truth may have struck him. He determines, 
therefore, to write a story illustrating concretely this conclusion 
of his. Let us suppose, then, that he sets out to find just the 
chain of events which would bring out most sharply and most 
ironically the whole point. Those which he finally determines 
upon are perfectly suited to making the problem concrete without 
losing for it any of its vital significance. The object picked 
up is the least valuable in the world; consequently, no one will 
believe the man who asserts that it was this instead of a purse 
that he found. Maitre Hauchecorne is exactly the sort of man 
to treasure such a trivial object, and he is just crafty enough 
to bring the suspicion of his fellows upon him. The power 



6 WHAT IS A STORY 

of this story lies in the exquisite fitness of the plot in all its 
circumstances to the essential meaning of the fable. 

The Necklace, another story of Maupassant's (appearing 
in Part II of this volume), can be regarded as illustrating this 
same method of finding a plot. Nearly everyone must have 
figured to himself the anguish and real financial hardship that 
might come from the loss of some valuable borrowed article. 
That is a problem that we have all faced imaginatively. You 
may have lost a valuable cuff-button, an heirloom borrowed from 
one of your friends. You worry greatly about the loss, but 
manage to have another made so much like the original that 
the owner never suspects the substitution. This suggests to 
your mind the common problem, but it is not pointed enough as 
an illustration to make the idea seem memorable. The events 
must affect more profoundly the lives of the actors in the drama. 
Accordingly the object chosen becomes a necklace so valuable 
as to require a large sum of money to replace it, and Mme. 
Loisel, the loser, is made a person in such straitened circum- 
stances that enormous sacrifices and efforts are needed if she is 
to pay for a new necklace. These details in themselves deepen 
the current of the story. The discovery that the original neck- 
lace was paste and worth only a trifling sum does not change 
the nature of the problem; but by making the supreme efforts 
of Mme. Loisel entirely unnecessary, this invention gives the 
story a pessimistic irony which renders it a supremely vivid 
presentation of the problem. 

In both of these examples it has been assumed that the 
author found a story to illustrate an idea which life had taught 
him. Yet whatever the author's initial impulse, his story 
will inevitably present a problem. Even when this impulse 
is the more usual one of an incident heard or actually beheld, 
the incident will fail to seem material for a story until it can be 
regarded as in some sense typical. Only then does it possess 
the meaning which relates it to the author's experience and 



CHARACTER 7 

illumines that of his readers. In any case literary inspiration 
comes to those who through their steady observation of life see 
in it illustrations of the ideas which thoughtful living has given 
them. The problem of a story in this sense is its informing 
spirit, as the plot is its body. 

3. Character 

The plots of stories, we have found, are dead things unless 
manifestations of characteristic action of men and women. 
The problem is arresting only if it illustrates some recognizable 
situation of human nature. The part that character plays 
in any constructed story is thus obviously large. For events are 
interesting and convincing only when they are the natural 
expression of the characters who enact them. 

Let us suppose that the plot of A Piece of String was brought 
to Maupassant's attention by hearing an anecdote related. 
The incident as it was told concerned a young man who had found 
some trivial object on the road, who had been suspected, by 
one who saw him, of having found a lost purse, and who had been 
unable to convince the police of his innocence. This might 
well strike the trained writer as material for fiction. Yet 
until he has chosen a character to play the central part, he will 
regard its possibilities as both vague and various. Any writer 
attempting to work this suggestion into story form will have to 
search his own experience for the most suitable character he 
can find there. The author of Rhy otitic Pertite, an American 
college student given this plot to make over, naturally thinks of 
one of the most peculiar of his professors — a crabbed and 
self-centered geologist. This man is made to pick up a stone 
valuable only to a curious scientist, and the story becomes a 
chapter in his life. Maupassant, for his part, on hearing the 
suppositious incident, at first may have conceived the story 
as being that of a young man whose career was ruined by the 
suspicion cast upon him. This young man may have been 



8 WHAT IS A STORY 

imagined as robbed of the confidence of all his fellow townsmen, 
deserted by his sweetheart, and finally forced to leave the town 
in disgrace. However, as soon as the author determined that 
the object picked up should be a piece of string, he saw that 
an old man, a peasant rendered avaricious and crafty by his 
hard struggle with life, would be a better hero than the young 
man he had first selected. Maitre Hauchecorne, once definitely 
conceived, brings with him, as it were, many of the details of 
the story. The setting is one in which he would inevitably 
move. The market at Goderville, the smells of the animals, 
the inn, and the countrymen crowded there are the environ- 
ment which Maitre Hauchecorne demanded if he were to live 
at all. As soon as a character is definitely conceived, its domi- 
nating power over the other elements of the story is a fact that 
must be early recognized by a young writer seeking to compose 
life as he knows it into a narrative. Henry James has confessed 
that his stories usually began with a character who assumed 
so vivid a reality that it fairly demanded vitalizing action for 
itself. His stories are thus the inevitable result of characters 
grown too strong to He quiescent in the brain of their 
creator. 

It is well to remember that a story is effective only if the 
characters are obviously fitted to enact the events of the plot 
and if they can bring with them a milieu full of the circumstance 
and detail of everyday life. Only then will they seem like real 
men and women. 

An author's mastery over the characters in his story depends, 
of course, on the ability to draw from his thoughtful obser- 
vation of men and women. He must have learned to see not 
only the picturesque idiosyncrasies which make them distinctive 
and individual, but also the hidden springs of action — the 
typical motives which make them recognizable like other men.- 
Uriah Heep, in David Copperfield, by rubbing his hands, writh- 
ing like a snake, and protesting his humility, arrests our atten- 



CHARACTER 9 

tion and suggests his nature, but he wins our comprehension 
by allowing us to know that, being a hypocrite, he is using 
his humility as a cloak to spread over his wicked schemes to get 
Mr. Wakefield into his sinister control and force a marriage 
with Agnes. The attempt to write fiction is a direct aid to the 
comprehension of life, because it immediately stimulates a closer 
observation of men and a more sustained and profound con- 
sideration of their actions. 

Despite the necessity for the individual to draw almost 
entirely upon his own critical experience in dealing with the 
characters in his stories, a few practical suggestions about the 
arrangement of material drawn from fife may be given. Cer- 
tain facts about the important characters in every piece of fiction 
all readers wish to know. 

First in importance, perhaps, are personal facts. The 
reader must know enough of a character's appearance, his man- 
nerisms, and even his intellectual peculiarities to be able to 
visualize him or at least to distinguish him as an individual. 
In particular, the reader must apprehend clearly the traits 
of character which are largely to motivate the plot. Mau- 
passant in both A Coward and The Necklace begins with the 
personal facts about the central characters and leads up to that 
trait which is to affect the plot vitally. In the remark of 
Viscount de Signoles, "If ever I fight a duel, I shall choose 
pistols. With that weapon I am sure of killing my man," 
we see all the bravado and social bluster which is to precipitate 
the tragic and ironical catastrophe. Yet neither in this case 
nor in that of Mme. Loisel does the author attempt an ex- 
haustive characterization in the preliminary exposition. A 
judicious author will carry his reader as soon as possible into the 
actual story. He will allow the characters to reveal much of 
their nature in their introductory speeches and progressively in 
their action. The Viscount's conduct at Tortoni's tells really 
no more about his character than is given in the exposition, 



io WHAT IS A STORY 

yet without the preliminary description his action in provoking 
the duel would have seemed almost insanely precipitate. The 
Viscount's baseness is, of course, not completely revealed 
until the climax itself is reached. This is as it should be. Every 
story in which the relation between character and plot is prop- 
erly vital will be a revelation of the nature of the principal 
figures. In general, then, if the salient personal facts of the 
characters be presented in the introductory exposition, the 
figures themselves can be trusted to reveal their inner natures 
while they play their parts in the actual story. 

4. Setting 

The setting of a story, as we have suggested, is largely deter- 
mined by the important characters. Maitre Hauchecorne 
inevitably brought with him the life of a small French village; 
Professor Lee in Rhy otitic Perlite, the life of a middle- western col- 
lege town. Yet the choice of the actual picturesque details of 
the setting is a separate and independent act of artistic 
creation. Nothing in Maitre Hauchecorne 's nature forced 
the author's selection of the market day in Goderville. 
Yet the various scenes connected with the market stir all 
the natural environment of the old peasant into vivid and 
picturesque life. The scene in turn communicates its vitality 
to the characters. 

Circus day in Perrytown doubtless seemed to the author of 
Rhy otitic Perlite the obvious American equivalent of market day 
in rural France. It offered, too, a similar opportunity for de- 
tecting the central character in his suspicious act and for giving 
it the necessary publicity. Besides, it presents the reader 
with a variety of details which are in themselves entertaining. 
But it does more. These details adventitious to the plot evoke 
much that is typical and recurrent in the life of a small town in 
the Middle West. The sense of amused recognition which the 
reader feels aids in making the story utterly real for him. These 



THE PRINCIPLE OF EMPHASIS n 

inorganic picturesque details combine to make what is called 
local color. The proper use of local color is indicated from its 
position in the above story. It ought seldom to be an end in 
itself or to engage the author's attention until the characters 
and their story have assumed definite outline in his mind. 
Local color is interesting because it entertains the reader at 
the same moment when it is satisfying his sense of recognition. 

5. The Principle of Emphasis 

Everyone, then, who attempts to compose reality into nar- 
rative must consider as elements of his story, plot, problem, 
character, and setting. The question of the most effective 
arrangement of these elements of a story is largely one of 
obtaining proper emphasis. Plot, problem, character, and set- 
ting may enter the mind of an author in any order. When 
they have been combined, however, to such an extent that 
the author can see clearly the outline of his story, he must 
decide how to direct the reader's attention to those parts 
of his narrative which he considers most important. These 
are commonly the beginning of the action, the climax, and 
the denouement. 

Every story begins with a description of some fairly well 
established condition of affairs. Into this status quo comes 
some person or event that disturbs the stability and compels 
a readjustment of the relations between the characters. Such 
an event marks the beginning of the narrative action. The 
climax is the point at which the struggle between the forces of 
conservation and those of disintegration is most intense. It 
is the point toward which all the events in the story converge 
either in prophecy or in retrospect. The denouement is that 
moment in the story at which the nature of the new status quo 
determined by the story is made clear. All of these points 
deserve a varying degree of emphasis. 

The climax is obviously the crucial point in a narrative. 



12 WHAT IS A STORY 

Of this the author must have a definite idea before he begins 
to write a word. Toward this summit the reader must be 
led from the very beginning of the story with quickening interest. 
It must receive, therefore, most emphatic attention. The prob- 
lem, then, that confronts every author of any short story at 
the threshold of his tale is, "How can I introduce character, 
setting, and other preliminary circumstance to my reader without 
emphasizing them to such an extent that his sense of progress 
toward a climax will be destroyed?" 

Trollope's method of solving this common problem in Mal- 
achi's Cove is simple, natural, and consecutive enough to be 
studied as a model. He begins with a description of the actual 
setting of the story — first of the wild, precipitous coast of 
Cornwall, and then of the fissure in the rock in which old 
Malachi lived and from which he eked his precarious living. 
Yet the mind does not rest in these details as an end in them- 
selves. They give us a forward view by suggesting the nature 
of the characters to appear. We expect some one savage and 
elemental, and Mally does not disappoint us. In the some- 
what extended description of her, Trollope is able to introduce 
further details of the setting, which would have been tiresome 
and confusing if given all at once at the beginning. Up to this 
point the author has been engaged in pure exposition. He has 
been describing the existing state of affairs which some external 
force is to provoke into the movement of a story. This exciting 
influence is Barty Gunliffe and his insistence upon gathering 
seaweed in Mally's Cove. In the changes which Barty's 
appearance will produce in the life of Mally we realize that our 
story will lie. 

Laurella in UArrabbiata is almost exactly the same sort 
of character as Mally. Her story is introduced, however, 
in a different way. The various stages of the narrative are 
not so clearly indicated as those in MalachVs Cove. The 
landscape which Paul Heyse describes bears no intrinsic emo- 



THE PRINCIPLE OF EMPHASIS 13 

tional relation to the girl. It is designed partly to create atmos- 
phere and partly to serve as a sort of diagram of the subsequent 
actions of the characters. Even when Laurella appears, the 
reader does not know what the scene of the story is to be or 
with whom her fortunes are to be complicated. This obscurity 
does not establish the inferiority of L'Arrabbiata in proper 
emphasis. It merely shows that various points of incidence 
of that emphasis are less clearly marked. 

Barty's first appearance, then, is clearly a point of emphasis. 
It marks the beginning of the action. From that moment the 
intensity of the story is heightened. The speed of the narrative 
movement is quickened. Introduction at this point of explana- 
tory material, or entirely new strains of narrative interest, 
would throw out of proportion all emphasis hitherto made. 
The story must move upward in interest to the climax already 
definitely conceived. In Malachi's Cove the interest grows 
through the conversation which the boy and the girl have in 
the cove. Through it the wild and elemental obstinacy 
of the girl becomes increasingly evident until we are sure that 
her outraged sense of justice will express itself in some violent 
act. So we are ready for the climax. Laurella's conversation 
with the priest serves the same purpose of leading us to the 
climax, though in a less definite way. Her vehement fear 
of love leads us to expect some action of ferocity in her efforts 
to escape it. 

In both the stories, as soon as the reader is made to realize 
that an exciting incident of some sort is bound to come, the 
author makes a distinct pause, In so doing he is observing 
a fundamental principle of emphasis. He is holding the reader 
in suspense. Trollope describes leisurely the stormy sea, the 
boy and the girl at their dangerous work, and finally the seeth- 
ing pool; Heyse describes in a leisurely fashion Antonio's wait- 
ing for Laurella. But in each story, as soon as the real action 
of the climax begins, events are made to move very rapidly. 



14 WHAT IS A STORY 

After Barty has slipped on the edge of the pool, or Antonio 
has roughly seized Laurella, the speed and intensity of the 
narrative is unchecked, until the action of the climax reaches 
an end. In MalachVs Cove this end occurs when Mally's 
grandfather meets her with the apparently lifeless Barty, in 
V Arrabbiata when Antonio and Laurella reach shore. 

After the climax has been reached, the intensity and speed 
of the narration should subside immediately. Only thus will 
the necessary contrast be established that gives the desired em- 
phasis to the decisive moment. The final part of a story is 
called variously the falling action, the outcome, or the close. 
The events which comprise this part of the tale are inevitably 
the results of the decision made in the climax, yet they need 
not be obvious at that moment. In Malachi's Cove, a new 
element of suspense is introduced after the climax has been 
passed, in that we are in doubt whether Mally will free herself 
from the unjust accusation or not. In V Arrabbiata our minds 
are not entirely at rest until we know whether Antonio is to 
win Laurella or not. 

The actual close of Malachi's Cove is a bit old-fashioned. 
It leaves nothing to the imagination. The older writers of 
narrative felt that they must lead the readers to a new status 
quo as fixed and as stable as the one which was disrupted into 
the action of the story. Many modern writers would have 
omitted Trollope's last three paragraphs. The close of L' Ar- 
rabbiata is less rigid. The imagination is left with work to 
do in the establishment of a new equilibrium. 

The analysis of these two stories has perhaps suggested 
methods of giving the various elements of a narrative proper 
emphasis. Only when the attention of the reader is attracted 
in greater degree to those events which the author considers of 
great importance has he grasped the writer's artistic intention. 
Unless composed in accordance with these principles of em- 
phasis, a narrative cannot reveal its meaning. 



THE PRINCIPLE OF EMPHASIS 15 

The stories which follow in this section are arranged in pairs. 
Both stories in a group are much alike in one of their narrative 
elements. In comparing and contrasting the two similar stories, 
the student may be able to appraise the value of the component 
parts of a tale and thus to discover what comprises originality 
in viewing life and in composing it into narrative. 



I. THE PIECE OF STRING 1 

Guy de Maupassant 

It was market-day, and over all the roads round Goderville 
the peasants and their wives were coming towards the town. 
The men walked easily, lurching the whole body forward at 
every step. Their long legs were twisted and deformed by the 
slow, painful labors of the country: — by bending over to 
plough, which is what also makes their left shoulders too high 
and their figures crooked; and by reaping corn, which obliges 
them for steadiness' sake to spread their knees too wide. Their 
starched blue blouses, shining as though varnished, ornamented 
at collar and cuffs with little patterns of white stitch-work, 
and blown up big around their bony bodies, seemed exactly 
like balloons about to soar, but putting forth a head, two arms, 
and two feet. 

Some of these fellows dragged a cow or a calf at the end of 
a rope. And just behind the animal, beating it over the back 
with a leaf-covered branch to hasten its pace, went their wives, 
carrying large baskets from which came forth the heads of chick- 
ens or the heads of ducks. These women walked with steps 
far shorter and quicker than the men; their figures, withered 
and upright, were adorned with scanty little shawls pinned over 
their flat bosoms; and they enveloped their heads each in a 
white cloth, close fastened round the hair and surmounted by 
a cap. 

Now a char-a-banc passed by, drawn by a jerky-paced nag. 
It shook up strangely the two men on the seat. And the woman 

1 Reprinted from The Odd Number with the kind permission of Harper and 
Brothers. This story is discussed at length in the Intioduction, pages 4-5, 7-8. 



GUY DE MAUPASSANT 17 

at the bottom of the cart held fast to its sides to lessen the 
hard joltings. 

In the market-place at Goderville was a great crowd, a 
mingled multitude of men and beasts. The horns of cattle, 
the high and long napped hats of wealthy peasants, the head- 
dresses of the women, came to the surface of that sea. And 
voices clamorous, sharp, shrill, made a continuous and savage 
din. Above it a huge burst of laughter from the sturdy lungs 
of a merry yokel would sometimes sound, and sometimes a long 
bellow from a cow tied fast to the wall of a house. 

It all smelled of the stable, of milk, of hay, and of perspi- 
ration, giving off that half-human, half-animal odor which is 
peculiar to the men of the fields. 

Maitre Hauchecorne, of Breaute, had just arrived at Goder- 
ville, and was taking his way towards the square, when he 
perceived on the ground a little piece of string. Maitre Hauche- 
corne, economical, like all true Normans, reflected that every- 
thing was worth picking up which could be of any use; and 
he stooped down — but painfully, because he suffered from 
rheumatism. He took the bit of thin cord from the ground, 
and was carefully preparing to roll it up when he saw Maitre 
Malandain, the harness-maker, on his door-step, looking at 
him. They had once had a quarrel about a halter, and they had 
remained angry, bearing malice on both sides. Maitre Hauche- 
corne was overcome with a sort of shame at being seen by his 
enemy looking in the dirt so for a bit of string. He quickly 
hid his find beneath his blouse ; then in the pocket of his breeches ; 
then pretended to be still looking for something on the ground 
which he did not discover; and at last went off towards the 
market-place, with his head bent forward, and a body almost 
doubled in two by rheumatic pains. 

He lost himself immediately in the crowd, which was clam- 
orous, slow, and agitated by interminable bargains. The 
peasants examined the cows, went off, came back, always in 



1 8 THE PIECE OF STRING 

great perplexity and fear of being cheated, never quite daring 
to decide, spying at the eye of the seller, trying ceaselessly to 
discover the tricks of the man and the defect in the beast. 

The women, having placed their great baskets at their feet, 
had pulled out the poultry, which lay upon the ground, tied 
by the legs, with eyes scared, with combs scarlet. 

They listened to propositions, maintaining their prices, with 
a dry manner, with an impassible face; or, suddenly, perhaps, 
deciding to take the lower price which was offered, they cried 
out to the customer, who was departing slowly: 

"All right, I'll let you have them, Mait' Anthime." 

Then, little by little, the square became empty, and when 
the Angelus struck mid-day those who lived at a distance 
poured into the inns. 

At Jourdain's the great room was filled with eaters, just as 
the vast court was rilled with vehicles of every sort — wagons, 
gigs, char-a-bancs, tilburys, tilt-carts which have no name, 
yellow with mud, misshapen, pieced together, raising their 
shafts to heaven like two arms, or it may be with their nose in 
the dirt and their rear in the air. 

Just opposite to where the diners were at table the huge 
fireplace, full of clear flame, threw a lively heat on the backs of 
those who sat along the right. Three spits were turning, 
loaded with chickens, with pigeons, and with joints of mutton, 
and a delectable odor of roast meat, and of gravy gushing over 
crisp brown skin, took wing from the hearth, kindled merriment, 
caused mouths to water. , 

All the aristocracy of the plough were eating there, at Mait' 
Jourdain's, the innkeeper's, a dealer in horses also, and a sharp 
fellow who had made a pretty penny in his day. 

The dishes were passed round, were emptied, with jugs of 
yellow cider. Every one told of his affairs, of his purchases 
and his sales. They asked news about the crops. The weather 
was good for green stuffs, but a little wet for wheat. 



GUY DE MAUPASSANT 19 

All of a sudden the drum rolled in the court before the house. 
Every one, except some of the most indifferent, was on his feet 
at once, and ran to the door, to the windows, with his mouth 
still full and his napkin in his hand. 

When the public crier had finished his tattoo he called forth 
in a jerky voice, making his pauses out of time: 

"Be it known to the inhabitants of Goderville, and in general 
to all — persons present at the market, that there has been lost 
this morning, on the Beuzeville road, between — nine and ten 
o'clock, a pocket-book of black leather, containing five hundred 
francs and business papers. You are requested to return it — 
to the mayor's office, at once, or to Maitre Fortune Houlbreque, 
of Manneville. There will be twenty francs reward." 

Then the man departed. They heard once more at a distance 
the dull beatings on the drum and the faint voice of the crier. 

Then they began to talk of this event, reckoning up the 
chances which Maitre Houlbreque had of rinding or of not 
finding his pocket-book again. 

And the meal went on. 

They were finishing their coffee when the corporal of gen- 
darmes appeared on the threshold. 

He asked: 

"Is Maitre Hauchecorne, of Breaute, here?" 

Maitre Hauchecorne, seated at the other end of the table, 
answered: 

"Here I am." 

And the corporal resumed: 

"Maitre Hauchecorne, will you have the kindness to come 
with me to the mayor's office? M. le Maire would like to 
speak to you." 

The peasant, surprised and uneasy, gulped down his little 
glass of cognac, got up, and, even worse bent over than in the 
morning, since the first steps after a rest were always particu- 
larly difficult, started off, repeating: 



20 THE PIECE OF STRING 

"Here I am, here I am." 

And he followed the corporal. 

The mayor was waiting for him, seated in an arm-chair. 
He was the notary of the place, a tall, grave man of pompous 
speech. 

"Maitre Hauchecorne," said he, "this morning, on the 
Beuzeville road, you were seen to pick up the pocket-book 
lost by Maitre Houlbreque, of Manneville." 

The countryman, speechless, regarded the mayor, frightened 
already by this suspicion which rested on him he knew not 
why. 

"I, I picked up that pocket-book?" 

"Yes, you." 

"I swear I didn't even know nothing about it at all." 

"You were seen." 

"They saw me, me? Who is that who saw me?" 

"M. Malandain, the harness-maker." 

Then the old man remembered, understood, and, reddening 
with anger: 

"Ah! he saw me, did he, the rascal? He saw me picking 
up this string here, M'sieu' le Maire." 

And, fumbling at the bottom of his pocket, he pulled out of 
it the little end of string. 

But the mayor incredulously shook his head: 

"You will not make me believe, Maitre Hauchecorne, that 
M. Malandain, who is a man worthy of credit, has mistaken this 
string for a pocket-book." 

The peasant, furious, raised his hand and spit as if to attest 
his good faith, repeating: 

"For all that, it is the truth of the good God, the blessed 
truth, M'sieu' le Maire. There! on my soul and my salvation 
I repeat it." 

The mayor continued: 

"After having picked up the thing in question, you even 



GUY DE MAUPASSANT 21 

looked for some time in the mud to see if a piece of money 
had not dropped out of it." 

The good man was suffocated with indignation and with fear: 

"If they can say! — if they can say .... such lies as that 
to slander an honest man! If they can say! — " 

He might protest, he was not believed. 

He was confronted with M. Malandain, who repeated and 
sustained his testimony. They abused one another for an 
hour. At his own request Maitre Hauchecorne was searched. 
Nothing was found upon him. 

At last, the mayor, much perplexed, sent him away, warning 
him that he would inform the public prosecutor, and ask for 
orders. 

The news had spread. When he left the mayor's office, 
the old man was surrounded, interrogated with a curiosity 
which was serious or mocking as the case might be, but into 
which no indignation entered. And he began to tell the story 
of the string. They did not believe him. They laughed. 

He passed on, button-holed by every one, himself button- 
holing his acquaintances, beginning over and over again his tale 
and his protestations, showing his pockets turned inside out 
to prove that he had nothing. 

They said to him: 

"You old rogue, va!" 

And he grew angry, exasperated, feverish, in despair at not 
being believed, and always telling his story. 

The night came. It was time to go home. He set out 
with three of his neighbors, to whom he pointed out the place 
where he had picked up the end of string; and all the way he 
talked of his adventure. 

That evening he made the round in the village of Breaute, 
so as to tell every one. He met only unbelievers. 

He was ill of it all night long. 

The next day, about one in the afternoon, Marius Paumelle 3 



22 THE PIECE OF STRING 

a farm hand of Maitre Breton, the market-gardener at Ymau- 
ville, returned the pocket-book and its contents to Maitre 
Houlbreque, of Manneville. 

This man said, indeed, that he had found it on the road; 
but not knowing how to read, he had carried it home and 
given it to his master. 

The news spread to the environs. Maitre Hauchecorne was 
informed. He put himself at once upon the go, and began 
to relate his story as completed by the denouement. He 
triumphed. 

"What grieved me," said he, "was not the thing itself, do 
you understand; but it was the lies. There's nothing does 
you so much harm as being in disgrace for lying." 

All day he talked of his adventure, he told it on the roads to 
the people who passed; at the cabaret to the people who drank; 
and the next Sunday, when they came out of church. He even 
stopped strangers to tell them about it. He was easy, now, 
and yet something worried him without his knowing exactly 
what it was. People had a joking manner while they listened. 
They did not seem convinced. He seemed to feel their tittle- 
tattle behind his back. 

On Tuesday of the next week he went to market at Goderville, 
prompted entirely by the need of telling his story. 

Malandain, standing on his door-step, began to laugh as he 
saw him pass. Why? 

He accosted a farmer of Criquetot, who did not let him finish, 
and, giving him a punch in the pit of his stomach, cried in his 
face: 

"Oh you great rogue, va!" Then turned his heel upon him. 

Maitre Hauchecorne remained speechless, and grew more and 
more uneasy. Why had they called him "great rogue" ? 

When seated at table in Jourdain's tavern he began again to 
explain the whole affair. 

A horse-dealer of Montivilliers shouted at him: 



GUY DE MAUPASSANT 23 

"Get out, get out old scamp; I know all about your string!" 

Hauchecorne stammered: 

"But since they found it again, the pocket-book!" 

But the other continued: 

" Hold your tongue, daddy; there's one who finds it and there's 
another who returns it. And no one the wiser." 

The peasant was choked. He understood at last. They 
accused him of having had the pocket-book brought back by 
an accomplice, by a confederate. 

He tried to protest. The whole table began to laugh. 

He could not finish his dinner, and went away amid a chorus 
<?f jeers. 

He went home, ashamed and indignant, choked with rage, 
with confusion, the more cast-down since from his Norman 
cunning, he was, perhaps, capable of having done what they 
accused him of, and even of boasting of it as a good trick. 
His innocence dimly seemed to him impossible to prove, his 
craftiness being so well known. And he felt himself struck to 
the heart by the injustice of the suspicion. 

Then he began anew to tell of his adventure, lengthening 
his recital every day, each time adding new proofs, more ener- 
getic protestations, and more solemn oaths which he thought 
of, which he prepared in his hours of solitude, his mind being 
entirely occupied by the story of the string. The more com- 
plicated his defence, the more artful his arguments, the less 
he was believed. 

"Those are liars' proofs," they said behind his back. 

He felt this; it preyed upon his heart. He exhausted himself 
in useless efforts. 

He was visibly wasting away. 

The jokers now made him tell the story of "The Piece of 
String" to amuse them, just as you make a soldier who has been 
on a campaign tell his story of the battle. His mind, struck 
at the root, grew weak. 



24 THE PIECE OF STRING 

About the end of December he took to his bed. 

He died early in January, and, in the delirium of the death- 
agony, he protested his innocence, repeating: 

"A little bit of string — a little bit of string — see, here it 
is, M'sieu' le Maire." 



J 

II. RHYOLITIC PERLITE 

Paul Palmerton 

[Indiana University] 

[In this story the plot of The Piece of String has been placed in an American 
setting. Those elements of interest which depend upon discovering a new plot 
are therefore absent. Yet the second story contains distinctive elements of 
originality which the thoughtful reader will enjoy finding and appraising. Other 
differences will appear in the firmness of the narrative texture. The student's 
theme is a much less closely wrought work of art. In it the atmosphere, the setting 
and even the characters are less integral parts of the whole. Many of the differ- 
ences in effect are due to this fact. A careful comparison of the two stories will 
show in their true relation the formative importance of the four essential elements 
of every narrative.] 

The street carnival at Perrytown was in full swing. The 
public square was filled with people, with the hum of voices, 
and with the cries of the "spielers" announcing their peerless 
attractions. The country folk listened and grinned, and 
moved aimlessly in little currents this way and that. From 
the whole crowd rose the genial warm odor of tobacco and 
chewing candy. 

In one corner of the square a merry-go-round was running, 
its ticket box close to the curb on the north side of Sixth Street. 
Professor Lee, teacher of geology at Perry College in the eastern 
part of the town, had been to the postoffice to get a dime's 
worth of stamps, and was returning, rather to his disgust, 
through the jolly, shoving crowd. He crossed to the north 
side of the square and was pushing his way past the merry-go- 
round and its tiny ticket office, when he caught sight of a stone 
lying in the foot of space between the office and the curb. To 
the ordinary observer it would have been but a stone, as large 
as a man's fist, gray, and covered with specks of a glassy sub- 
stance. To Professor Lee, geologist, it was infinitely more. 



26 RHYOLITIC PERLITE 

It was rhyolitic perlite, a lava formation from Yellowstone 
Park. It was to be described further as heavy and vesicular, 
of dark and light crystals which were obsidian and quartz 
respectively. 

To Professor Lee it was even more than this — it was a whole 
book in his particular subject. 

Professor Lee had recognized the stone immediately, and 
he was about to pick it up and pocket it when he noticed that 
the girl in the box-office window was staring at him. Why this 
made him hesitate he could not have said; but he gave the stone 
a push with his foot and contemplated it. How had such a 
treasure come there? To whom did it belong? Had some one 
in the crowd just dropped it, or had the merry-go-round brought 
it along in its travels? Possibly it was the property of the girl 
in the box-office and had fallen out on the curb. He looked to 
see if she were waiting for him to pick it up, but she was merely 
staring at him abstractedly. She did not appear to Professor 
Lee like a person who would cultivate an interest in perlites. 
He gave the stone another push a little farther from the window 
and turned his back to the girl. Then he began to wipe his 
forehead with his handkerchief, which he presently let fall to 
the pavement. Stooping, he picked up both the handkerchief 
and the stone together and thrust them into his coat pocket. 
He did not look at the girl again, but kept on down Sixth Street 
toward the college. 

At five o'clock that afternoon, Professor Lee, expert in per- 
lites, bent over his new specimen and rejoiced. At the same 
hour the owner of the merry-go-round pounded on the ticket- 
office and cursed. He cursed the ticket-girl, the merry-go- 
round, the amusement business in general, and he cursed with 
reason, for his big leather wallet containing five hundred dollars 
in cash was missing. He persisted in his statement that he had 
left it at the ticket-office. The ticket-girl protested just as 
strongly that he had not, and, moreover, she was positive that 



PAUL PALMERTON 27 

she had seen him take it up after making out accounts. It 
stuck out of his pocket — he must have dropped it. Then sud- 
denly the girl remembered. A shabby little man had let his 
handkerchief fall over something on the curb near the window, 
and picking up both objects, had walked away hurriedly — ■ 
just as she thought he was going to buy a ticket for the merry- 
go-round. It was clear where the purse had gone. 

That evening, after his discovery, Professor Lee wrote letters 
to several of his learned friends, telling them among other things 
of his curious find. Thus it happened that he was again out 
of stamps the next morning and needed to go to the postomce. 
He went up Sixth Street and turned the corner into the square. 
The ticket-girl saw him and shrieked, and the city police, 
forewarned, collared him. When the manager and the ticket- 
girl appeared in court, Professor Lee declared his innocence. 
He admitted some justice in their suspicions, but he explained 
all the circumstances, just why he had crossed the square, 
and how he happened to see the stone. He even quoted from 
the letters he had written, and a messenger was sent to fetch 
the stone, the arrival of which seemed to Professor Lee to 
complete his vindication. It is true that his setting forth of 
his reasons for dropping his handkerchief over the stone struck 
the professor himself as a trifle lame. But there is no account- 
ing for impulses of that kind — certainly he had no evil inten- 
tion. He was a respectable citizen, a member of a distinguished 
faculty and of societies of learned men. 

These last remarks did not appear to impress the manager 
or the ticket-girl. The latter had first thought of him as a 
shabby little man, and she adhered to her description. The 
professor might be Christopher Columbus, but he had dropped 
his handkerchief to hide something and had sneaked off with it, 
and she had no opinion of a man who would stoop to that sort 
of thing. The manager was rather more puzzled. He could 
not believe that the professor was an utter fool. Yet, on the 



28 RHY0LIT1C PERLITE 

face of it, the professor's story was balderdash — a pebble from 
Wyoming lying around loose on the Perrytown square, and 
then the handkerchief-dropping over a mere stone. Pro- 
fessors, no doubt, did queer things, and most of all reasoned 
queer ways, but this was hardly credible. The judge was 
obviously of somewhat similar opinion. Professor Lee him- 
self began to realize that it was an absurd situation, and when 
the case was dismissed for lack of evidence, he somehow felt 
that the matter would not be forgotten. 

In the local paper, however, it went unrecorded — through 
an editorial policy of never offending anyone — and for a few 
days the professor took heart. 

Then, one morning he was walking to class with a colleague 
who remarked off-hand: "Well, I hear you were in court the 
other day. What was it all about?" 

Professor Lee rushed into an explanation. His friend at 
first appeared to be vastly amused. But when the detail of the 
handkerchief was mentioned he grew silent. 

Professor Lee added: "Of course it was an absurd situation, 
absurd of me to drop my handkerchief, and, then, the utter 
improbability of finding rhyolitic perlite in Perrytown!" 

u Yes, of course," said his friend. "It sounds like a tall 
story. You can't blame people for talking." 

"Who's talking?" asked Professor Lee. 

"Oh, it's going the rounds. You know Perrytown." 

Professor Lee was faintly alarmed. He knew Perrytown 
very well. Perrytown would spread it broadcast as a huge 
joke on an eccentric pedagogue. 

But after a few days Professor Lee noted a curious thing. 
Nobody else spoke to him about his arrest. He imagined also 
that some of his acquaintances were a trifle distant — or was 
it just his imagination? Certainly there was a marked hush 
one evening when he turned up rather late at the meeting of 
the Faculty Club. 



PAUL PALMERTON 29 

It was this which decided him to appeal to the president 
of the college, a kindly old man of seventy. He was listened 
to to the end. 

"It is precisely the story I had heard," said the president. 
"You need not worry, people are not maligning you." 

"But they are," said Professor Lee. "They are saying — " 
He stopped. 

"No," said the president, "they are apparently saying 
nothing which you do not admit. This is just one of life's 
little ironies. Of course, your friends will see you through." 

Professor Lee left the president's office much discouraged. 
Who were his friends on the faculty of Perry College? He 
realized that he was a recluse. He had acquaintances. Men 
in other institutions sought his opinion. But friends? What 
difference did it make, then, what any of them thought? 

He worked now all day in his laboratory, and for some reason 
seemed to lose interest in meeting classes. At the beginning 
of the second term there was a marked failing off among his 
students. Were they turning against him? With great embar- 
rassment he finally asked one of his seniors, a boy who always 
had the highest marks, what he thought the trouble might be. 

"Why, to tell you the truth, I suppose it is partly that case 
in court. You know how the fellows exaggerate things." 

"What do they say?" 

"Well, they are saying now that you admit that you found 
a valuable stone, worth hundreds of dollars to you, and that 
you covered it with your handkerchief." 

"Look here," interrupted Professor Lee. "It was just 
rhyolitic perlite — a fine specimen, I admit; but nothing I 
could sell, you understand." 

"I suppose it was just the story of the handkerchief, then," 
said the senior; "you know how the fellows talk." 

The atmosphere of Perrytown — it was really nothing more 
definite than that — grew more and more distasteful to Pro- 



30 RHY0L1TIC PERLITE 

fessor Lee. He could see vaguely that there would be no way 
of purifying it. Perrytown was a bad place — he knew it well. 
The people were mean and suspicious. 

Yet the people of Perrytown were genuinely surprised when 
the following year Professor Lee's name did not recur on the 
faculty list. There were rumors that he had received a "call." 
But nobody was sure where he had gone. 

In a few years he was forgotten. His case was still explained 
to newcomers on the faculty, and occasionally rehashed in 
fraternity houses where there might be some mild speculation 
as to its merits. The man himself, however, was only a name, 
a name to hang a tale on — and nobody had convictions one 
way or the other about the truth of the tale. 

Yet to this day everyone who wishes may see, under a neat 
little glass case in the geological laboratory, a gray stone, as 
large as man's fist, heavy and vesicular, containing specks of 
dark and light crystals, which are obsidian and quartz respec- 
tively. 



m. MALACHI'S COVE 

Anthony Trollope 

[Mally in Malachi's Cove and Laurella in UArrabbiata are much alike. Both 
conceal under their savage exteriors large capacities for heroic devotion. The 
woman in each conquers the hoyden. Yet these unusual characters are made 
to reveal their similar natures through completely different plots. Setting and all 
the attendant circumstances are also unlike. Though the narrative interest in the 
two stories is different, the stories present essentially the same problem. They 
make the same reading of human life. Malachi's Cove is discussed at length in 
the introduction, pages 12-14.] 

On the northern coast of Cornwall, between Tintagel and 
Bossiney, down on the very margin of the sea, there lived not 
long since an old man who got his living by saving seaweed 
from the waves, and selling it for manure. The cliffs there are 
bold and fine, and the sea beats in upon them from the north 
with a grand violence. I doubt whether it be not the finest 
morsel of cliff scenery in England, though it is beaten by many 
portions of the west coast of Ireland, and perhaps also by spots 
in Wales and Scotland. Cliffs should be nearly precipitous, 
they should be broken in their outlines, and should barely admit 
here and there of an insecure passage from their summit to the 
sand at their feet. The sea should come, if not up to them, at 
least very near to them, and then, above all things, the water 
below them should be blue, and not of that dead leaden colour 
which is so familiar to us in England. At Tintagel all these 
requisites are there, except that bright blue colour which is so 
lovely. But the cliffs themselves are bold and well broken, 
and the margin of sand at high water is very narrow, — so nar- 
row that at spring-tides there is barely a footing there. 

Close upon this margin was the cottage or hovel of Malachi 
Trenglos, the old man of whom I have spoken. But Malachi, 



32 MALACHI'S COVE 

or old Glos, as he was commonly called by the people around 
him, had not build his house absolutely upon the sand. There 
was a fissure in the rock so great that at the top it formed a 
narrow ravine, and so complete from the summit to the base 
that it afforded an opening for a steep and rugged track from 
the top of the rock to the bottom. This fissure was so wide 
at the bottom that it had afforded space for Trenglos to fix 
his habitation on a foundation of rock, and here he had lived for 
many years. It was told of him that in the early days of his 
trade he had always carried the weed in a basket on his back 
to the top, but latterly he had been possessed of a donkey which 
had been trained to go up and down the steep track with a 
single pannier over his loins, for the rocks would not admit of 
panniers hanging by his side; and for this assistant he had 
built a shed adjoining his own, and almost as large as that in 
which he himself resided. 

But, as years went on, old Glos procured other assistance 
than that of the donkey, or, as I should rather say, Providence 
supplied him with other help; and, indeed, had it not been so, 
the old man must have given up his cabin and his independence 
and gone into the workhouse at Camelford. For rheumatism 
had afflicted him, old age had bowed him till he was nearly 
double, and by degrees he became unable to attend the donkey 
or even to assist in rescuing the coveted weed from the 
waves. 

At the time to which our story refers Trenglos had not been 
up the cliff for twelve months, and for the last six months he 
had done nothing towards the furtherance of his trade, except 
to take the money and keep it, if any of it was kept, and occa- 
sionally to shake down a bundle of fodder for the donkey. The 
real work of the business was done altogether by Mahala Treng- 
los, his granddaughter. 

Mally Trenglos was known to all the farmers round the coast, 
and to all the small tradespeople in Camelford. She was a 



ANTHONY TROLLOPE 33 

wild-looking, almost unearthly creature, with wild-flowing, 
black, uncombed hair, small in stature, with small hands and 
bright black eyes; but people said that she was very strong, 
and the children around declared that she worked day and 
night, and knew nothing of fatigue. As to her age there were 
many doubts. Some said she was ten, and others five-and- 
twenty, but the reader may be allowed to know that at this 
time she had in truth passed her twentieth birthday. The 
old people spoke well of Mally, because she was so good to 
her grandfather; and it was said of her that though she carried 
to him a little gin and tobacco almost daily, she bought nothing 
for herself; — and as to the gin, no one who looked at her would 
accuse her of meddling with that. But she had no friends, 
and but few acquaintances among people of her own age. 
They said that she was fierce and ill-natured, that she had not 
a good word for any one, and that she was, complete at all 
points, a thorough little vixen. The young men did not care 
for her; for, as regarded dress, all days were alike with her. 
She never made herself smart on Sundays. She was generally 
without stockings, and seemed to care not at all to exercise 
any of those feminine attractions which might have been hers 
had she studied to attain them. All days were the same to her 
in regard to dress; and, indeed, till lately, all days had, I fear, 
been the same to her in other respects. Old Malachi had 
never been seen inside a place of worship since he had taken 
to live under the cliff. 

But within the last two years Mally had submitted herself 
to the teaching of the clergyman at Tintagel, and had appeared 
at church on Sundays, if not absolutely with punctuality, 
at any rate so often that no one who knew the peculiarity of 
her residence was disposed to quarrel with her on that subject. 
But she made no difference in her dress on these occasions. 
She took her place on a low stone seat just inside the church 
door, clothed as usual in her thick red serge petticoat and loose 



34 MALACHI'S COVE 

brown serge jacket, such being the apparel which she had 
found to be best adapted for her hard and perilous work among 
the waters. She had pleaded to the clergyman when he at- 
tacked her on the subject of church attendance with vigour that 
she had got no church-going clothes. He had explained to 
her that she would be received there without distinction to her 
clothing. Mally had taken him at his word, and had gone, 
with a courage which certainly deserved admiration, though 
I doubt whether there was not mingled with it an obstinacy 
which was less admirable. 

For people said that old Glos was rich, and that Mally might 
have proper clothes if she chose to buy them. Mr. Polwarth, 
the clergyman, who, as the old man could not come to him, 
went down the rocks to the old man, did make some hint on 
the matter in Mally's absence. But old Glos, who had been 
patient with him on other matters, turned upon him so angrily 
when he made an allusion to money, that Mr. Polwarth found 
himself obliged to give that matter up, and Mally continued 
to sit upon the stone bench in her short serge petticoat, with her 
long hair streaming down her face. She did so far sacrifice 
to decency as on such occasion to tie up her back hair with an 
old shoe-string. So tied it would remain through the Monday 
and Tuesday, but by Wednesday afternoon Mally's hair had 
generally managed to escape. 

As to Mally's indefatigable industry there could be no manner 
of doubt, for the quantity of seaweed which she and the donkey 
amassed between them was very surprising. Old Glos, it was 
declared, had never collected half what Mally gathered together; 
but then the article was becoming cheaper, and it was necessary 
that the exertion should be greater. So Mally and the donkey 
toiled and toiled, and the seaweed came up in heaps which sur- 
prised those who looked at her little hands and light form. 
Was there not some one who helped her at nights, some fairy, 
or demon, or the like? Mally was so snappish in her answers 



ANTHONY TROLLOPE 35 

to people that she had no right to be surprised if ill-natured 
things were said of her. 

No one ever heard Mally Trenglos complain of her work, 
but about this time she was heard to make great and loud 
complaints of the treatment she received from some of her 
neighbours. It was known that she went with her plaints to 
Mr. Polwarth; and when he could not help her, or did not give 
her such instant help as she needed, she went — ah, so foolishly! 
— to the office of a certain attorney at Camelford, who was 
not likely to prove himself a better friend than Mr. Polwarth. 

Now the nature of her injury was as follows. The place in 
which she collected her seaweed was a little cove; the people 
had come to call it Malachi's Cove from the name of the old 
man who lived there; — which was so formed, that the margin 
of the sea therein could only be reached by the passage from the 
top down to Trenglos's hut. The breadth of the cove when 
the sea was out might perhaps be two hundred yards, and on 
each side the rocks ran out in such a way that both from north 
and south the domain of Trenglos was guarded from intruders. 
And this locality had been well chosen for its intended purpose. 

There was a rush of the sea into the cove, which carried there 
large, drifting masses of seaweed, leaving them among the rocks 
when the tide was out. During the equinoctial winds of the 
spring and autumn the supply would never fail; and even when 
the sea was calm, the long, soft, salt-bedewed, trailing masses 
of the weed could be gathered there when they could not be 
found elsewhere for miles along the coast. The task of getting 
the weed from the breakers was often difficult and dangerous, — 
so difficult that much of it was left to be carried away by the 
next outgoing tide. 

Mally doubtless did not gather half the crop that was there 
at her feet. What was taken by the returning waves she did 
not regret; but when interlopers came upon her cove, and 
gathered her wealth,-— her grandfather's wealth, — beneath her 



36 MALACHI'S COVE 

eyes, then her heart was broken. It was this interloping, this 
intrusion, that drove poor Mally to the Camelford attorney. 
But, alas, though the Camelford attorney took Mally's money, 
he could do nothing for her, and her heart was broken ! 

She had an idea, in which no doubt her grandfather shared, 
that the path to the cove was, at any rate, their property. 
When she was told that the cove, and sea running into the 
cove, were not the freeholds of her grandfather, she understood 
that the statement might be true. But what then as to the 
use of the path? Who had made the path what it was? Had 
she not painfully, wearily, with exceeding toil, carried up bits 
of rock with her own little hands, that her grandfather's donkey 
might have footing for his feet? Had she not scraped together 
crumbs of earth along the face of the cliff that she might make 
easier to the animal the track of that rugged way? And now, 
when she saw big farmers' lads coming down with other donkeys, 
— and, indeed, there was one who came with a pony; no boy 
but a young man, old enough to know better than rob a poor 
old man and a young girl, — she reviled the whole human race, 
and swore that the Camelford attorney was a fool. 

Any attempt to explain to her that there was still weed 
enough for her was worse than useless. Was it not all hers and 
his, or, at any rate, was not the sole way to it his and hers? 
And was not her trade stopped and impeded? Had she not been 
forced to back her laden donkey down, twenty yards she said, 
but it had, in truth, been five, because Farmer Gunliffe's son 
had been in the way with his thieving pony? Farmer Gunliffe 
had wanted to buy her weed at his own price, and because 
she had refused he had set on his thieving son to destroy her 
in this wicked way. 

"I'll hamstring the beast the next time as he's down here!" 
said Mally to old Glos, while the angry fire literally streamed 
from her eyes. 

Farmer Gunliffe's small homestead — he held about fifty 



ANTHONY TROLLOPE 37 

acres of land — was close by the village of Tintagel, and not 
a mile from the cliff. The sea- wrack, as they call it, was pretty 
well the only manure within his reach, and no doubt he thought 
it hard that he should be kept from using it by Mally Trenglos 
and her obstinacy. 

"There's heaps of other coves, Barty," said Mally to Barty 
Gunliffe, the farmer's son. 

"But none so nigh, Mally, nor yet none that fills 'emselves 
as this place." 

Then he explained to her that he would not take the weed that 
came up close to hand. He was bigger than she was, and 
stronger, and would get it from the outer rocks, with which she 
never meddled. Then, with scorn in her eye, she swore that she 
could get it where he durst not venture, and repeated her 
threat of hamstringing the pony. Barty laughed at her wrath, 
jeered her because of her wild hair, and called her a mermaid. 

"I'll mermaid you!" she cried. "Mermaid, indeed! I 
wouldn't be a man to come and rob a poor girl and an old 
cripple. But you're no man, Barty Gunliffe! You're not half 
a man." 

Nevertheless, Bartholomew Gunliffe was a very fine young 
fellow, as far as the eye went. He was about five feet eight 
inches high, with strong arms and legs, with light curly brown 
hair and blue eyes. His father was but in a small way as a 
farmer, but, nevertheless, Barty Gunliffe was well thought of 
among the girls around. Everybody liked Barty, — excepting 
only Mally Trenglos, and she hated him like poison. 

Barty, when he was asked why so good-natured a lad as 
he persecuted a poor girl and an old man, threw himself upon 
the justice of the thing. It wouldn't do at all, according to 
his view, that any single person should take upon himself to own 
that which God Almighty sent as the common property of all. 
He would do Mally no harm, and so he had told her. But Mally 
was a vixen, — a wicked little vixen; and she must be taught 



38 MALACHI'S COVE 

to have a civil tongue in her head. When once Mally would 
speak him civil as he went for weed, he would get his father to 
pay the old man some sort of toll for the use of the path. 

"Speak him civil?" said Mally. "Never; not while I have 
a tongue in my mouth!" And I fear old Glos encouraged her 
rather than otherwise in her view of the matter. 

But her grandfather did not encourage her to hamstring 
the pony. Hamstringing a pony would be a serious thing, 
and old Glos thought it might be very awkward for both of them 
if Mally were put into prison. He suggested, therefore, that 
all manner of impediments should be put in the way of the 
pony's feet, surmising that the well-trained donkey might be 
able to work in spite of them. And Barty Gunliffe, on his 
next descent, did find the passage very awkward when he came 
near to Malachi's hut, but he made his way down, and poor 
Mally saw the lumps of rock at which she had laboured so hard 
pushed on one side or rolled out of the way with a steady per- 
sistency of injury towards herself that almost drove her frantic. 

"Well, Barty, you're a nice boy," said old Glos, sitting in the 
doorway of the hut, as he watched the intruder. 

"I ain't a doing no harm to none as doesn't harm me," said 
Barty. "The sea's free to all, Malachi." 

"And the sky's free to all, but I must'n get up on the top ol 
your big barn to look at it," said Mally, who was standing among 
the rocks with a long hook in her hand. The long hook was the 
tool with which she worked in dragging the weed from the 
waves. "But you ain't got no justice nor yet no sperrit, or 
you wouldn't come here to vex an old man like he." 

"I didn't want to vex him, nor yet to vex you, Mally. You 
let me be for a while, and we'll be friends yet." 

"Friends!" exclaimed Mally. "Who'd have the likes of 
you for a friend? What are you moving them stones for? 
Them stones belongs to grandfather." And in her wrath she 
made a movement as though she were going to fly at him. 



ANTHONY TROLLOPE 39 

"Let him be, Mally," said the old man; "let him be. He'll 
get his punishment. He'll come to be drowned some day if 
he comes down here when the wind is in shore." 

"That he may be drowned then!" said Mally, in her anger. 
"If he was in the big hole there among the rocks, and the sea 
running in at half tide, I wouldn't lift a hand to help him out." 

"Yes, you would, Mally; you'd fish me up with your hook 
like a big stick of seaweed." 

She turned from him with scorn as he said this, and went into 
the hut. It was time for her to get ready for her work, and one 
of the great injuries done her lay in this, — that such a one as 
Barty GunlirTe should come and look at her during her toil 
among the breakers. 

It was an afternoon in April, and the hour was something 
after four o'clock. There had been a heavy wind from the 
northwest all the morning, with gusts of rain, and the sea-gulls 
had been in and out of the cove all the day, which was a sure 
sign to Mally that the incoming tide would cover the rocks with 
weed. 

The quick waves were now returning with wonderful celerity 
over the low reefs, and the time had come at which the treasure 
must be seized, if it was to be garnered on that day. By seven 
o'clock it would be growing dark, at nine it would be high water, 
and before daylight the crop would be carried out again if not 
collected. All this Mally understood very well, and some of 
this Barty was beginning to understand also. 

As Mally came down with her bare feet, bearing her long hook 
in her hand, she saw Barty's pony standing patiently on the 
sand, and in her heart she longed to attack the brute. Barty 
at this moment, with a common three-pronged fork in his hand, 
was standing down on a large rock, gazing forth towards the 
waters. He had declared that he would gather the weed only 
at places which were inaccessible to Mally, and he was looking 
out that he might settle where he would begin. 



40 MALACHI'S COVE 

"Let 'un be, let 'un be," shouted the old man to Mally, as 
he saw her take a step towards the beast, which she hated almost 
as much as she hated the man. 

Hearing her grandfather's voice through the wind, she de- 
sisted from her purpose, if any purpose she had had, and went 
forth to her work. As she passed down the cove, and scrambled 
in among the rocks, she saw Barty still standing on his perch; 
out beyond, the white-curling waves were cresting and break- 
ing themselves with violence, and the wind was howling among 
the caverns and abutments of the cliff. 

Every now and then there came a squall of rain, and though 
there was sufficient light, the heavens were black with clouds. 
A scene more beautiful might hardly be found by those who 
love the glories of the coast. The light for such objects was 
perfect. Nothing could exceed the grandeur of the colours, — 
the blue of the open sea, the white of the breaking waves, the 
yellow sands, or the streaks of red and brown which gave such 
richness to the cliff. 

But neither Mally nor Barty were thinking of such things as 
these. Indeed they were hardly thinking of their trade after 
its ordinary forms. Barty was meditating how he might best 
accomplish his purpose of working beyond the reach of Mally's 
feminine powers, and Mally was resolving that wherever Barty 
went she would go farther. 

And, in many respects, Mally had the advantage. She knew 
every rock in the spot, and was sure of those which gave a good 
foothold, and sure also of those which did not. And then her 
activity had been made perfect by practice for the purpose to 
which it was to be devoted. Barty, no doubt, was stronger 
than she, and quite as active. But Barty could not jump among 
the waves from one stone to another as she could do, nor was 
he able to get aid in his work from the very force of the water 
as she could get it. She had been hunting seaweed in that cove 
since she had been an urchin six years old, and she knew 



ANTHONY TROLLOPE 41 

every hole and corner and every spot of vantage. The waves 
were her friends, and she could use them. She could measure 
their strength, and knew when and where it would cease. 

Mally was great down in the salt pools of her own cove, — 
great, and very fearless. As she watched Barty make his way 
forward from rock to rock, she told herself, gleefully, that he 
was going astray. The curl of the wind as it blew into the 
cove would not carry the weed up to the northern buttresses 
of the cove; and then there was the great hole just there, — 
the great hole of which she had spoken when she wished him evil. 

And now she went to work, holding up the dishevelled hairs 
of the ocean, and landing many a cargo on the extreme margin 
of the sand, from whence she would be able in the evening to 
drag it back before the invading waters would return to reclaim 
the spoil. 

And on his side also Barty made his heap up against the 
northern buttresses of which I have spoken. Barty's heap 
became big and still bigger, so that he knew, let the pony work 
as he might, he could not take it all up that evening. But 
still it was not as large as Mally's heap. Mally's hook was 
better than his fork, and Mally's skill was better than his 
strength. And when he failed in some haul Mally would jeer 
him with wild, weird laughter, and shriek to him through the 
wind that he was not half a man. At first he answered her 
with laughing words, but before long, as she boasted of her suc- 
cess and pointed to his failure, he became angry, and then he 
answered her no more. He became angry with himself, in that 
he missed so much of the plunder before him. 

The broken sea was full of the long straggling growth which 
the waves had torn up from the bottom of the ocean, but the 
masses were carried past him, away from him, — nay, once or 
twice over him; and then Mally's weird voice would sound in 
his ear, jeering him. The gloom among the rocks was now be- 
coming thicker and thicker, the tide was beating in with in- 



42 MALACHI'S COVE 

creased strength, and the gusts of wind came with quicker and 
greater violence. But still he worked on. While Mally 
worked he would work, and he would work for some time after 
she was driven in. He would not be beaten by a girl. 

The great hole was now full of water, but of water which 
seemed to be boiling as though in a pot. And the pot was 
full of floating masses, — large treasures of seaweed which 
were thrown to and fro upon its surface, but lying there so thick 
that one would seem almost able to rest upon it without 
sinking. 

Mally knew well how useless it was to attempt to rescue 
aught from the fury of that boiling cauldron. The hole went in 
under the rocks, and the side of it towards the shore lay high, 
slippery, and steep. The hole, even at low water, was never 
empty; and Mally believed that there was no bottom to it. 
Fish thrown in there could escape out to the ocean, miles away, 
— so Mally in her softer moods would tell the visitors to the 
cove. She knew the hole well. Poulnadioul she was accustomed 
to call it; which was supposed, when translated, to mean 
that this was the hole of the Evil One. Never did Mally at- 
tempt to make her own the bunch of weed which had found 
its way into that pot. 

But Barty GunlifTe knew no better, and she watched him as 
he endeavoured to steady himself on the treacherously slippery 
edge of the pool. He fixed himself there and made a haul, 
with some small success. How he managed it she hardly knew, 
but she stood still for a while watching him anxiously, and then 
she saw him slip. He slipped, and recovered himself; — slipped 
again, and again recovered himself. 

" Barty, you fool!" she screamed; "if you get yourself 
pitched in there, you'll never come out no more." 

Whether she simply wished to frighten him, or whether her 
heart relented and she had thought of his danger with dismay, 
who shall say? She could not have told herself. She hated 



ANTHONY TROLLOPE 43 

him as much as ever, — but she could hardly have wished to 
see him drowned before her eyes. 

"You go on, and don't mind me," said he, speaking in a 
hoarse, angry tone. 

"Mind you! — who minds you?" retorted the girl. And 
then she again prepared herself for her work. 

But as she went down over the rocks with her long hook 
balanced in her hands, she suddenly heard a splash, and, turn- 
ing quickly round, saw the body of her enemy tumbling amidst 
the eddying waves in the pool. The tide had now come up 
so far that every succeeding wave washed into it and over it 
from the side nearest to the sea, and then ran down again back 
from the rocks, as the rolling wave receded, with a noise like 
the fall of a cataract. And then, when the surplus water had 
retreated for a moment, the surface of the pool would be partly 
calm, though the fretting bubbles would still boil up and down, 
and there was ever a simmer on the surface, as though, in 
truth, the cauldron were heated. But this time of comparative 
rest was but a moment, for the succeeding breaker would come 
up almost as soon as the foam of the preceding one had done, 
and then again the waters would be dashed upon the rocks, 
and the sides would echo with the roar of the angry wave. 

Instantly Mally hurried across to the edge of the pool, crouch- 
ing down upon her hands and knees for security as she did so. 
As a wave receded, Barty's head and face was carried round 
near to her, and she could see that his forehead was covered 
with blood. Whether he was alive or dead she did not know. 
She had seen nothing but his blood, and the light-coloured 
hair of his head lying amidst the foam. Then his body was 
drawn along by the suction of the retreating wave ; but the mass 
of water that escaped was not on this occasion large enough 
to carry the man out with it. 

Instantly Mally was at work with her hook, and getting it 
fixed into his coat, dragged him towards the spot on which she 



44 MALACHI'S COVE 

was kneeling. During the half minute of repose she got him so 
close that she could touch his shoulder. Straining herself down, 
laying herself over the long bending handle of the hook, she 
strove to grasp him with her right hand. But she could not do 
it; she could only touch him. 

Then came the next breaker, forcing itself on with a roar, 
looking to Mally as though it must certainly knock her from her 
resting-place, and destroy them both. But she had nothing for 
it but to kneel, and hold by her hook. 

What prayer passed through her mind at that moment 
for herself or for him, or for that old man who was sitting 
unconsciously up at the cabin, who can say? The great wave 
came and rushed over her as she lay almost prostrate, and when 
the water was gone from her eyes, and the tumult of the foam, 
and the violence of the roaring breaker had passed by her, 
she found herself at her length upon the rock, while his body had 
been lifted up, free from her hook, and was lying upon the slip- 
pery ledge, half in the water and half out of it. As she looked 
at him, in that instant, she could see that his eyes were open and 
that he was struggling with his hands. 

"Hold by the hook, Barty," she cried, pushing the stick of 
it before him, while she seized the collar of his coat in her hands. 

Had he been her brother, her lover, her father, she could not 
have clung to him with more of the energy of despair. He 
did contrive to hold by the stick which she had given him, and 
when the succeeding wave had passed by, he was still on the 
ledge. In the next moment she was seated a yard or two above 
the hole, in comparative safety, while Barty lay upon the rocks 
with his still bleeding head resting upon her lap. 

What could she do now? She could not carry him ; and in 
fifteen minutes the sea would be up where she was sitting. 
He was quite insensible and very pale, and the blood was coming 
slowly, — very slowly, — from the wound on his forehead. 
Ever so gently she put her hand upon his hair to move it back 



ANTHONY TROLLOPE 45 

from his face; and then she bent over his mouth to see if he 
breathed, and as she looked at him she knew that he was beau- 
tiful. 

What would she not give that he might live? Nothing now 
was so precious to her as his life, — as this life which she had so 
far rescued from the waters. But what could she do? Her 
grandfather could scarcely get himself down over the rocks, 
if indeed he could succeed in doing so much as that. Could she 
drag the wounded man backwards, if it were only a few feet, 
so that he might he above the reach of the waves till further 
assistance could be procured? 

She set herself to work and she moved him, almost lifting 
him. As she did so she wondered at her own strength, but 
she was very strong at that moment. Slowly, tenderly, falling 
on the rocks herself so that he might fall on her, she got him 
back to the margin of the sand, to a spot which the waters 
would not reach for the next two hours. 

Here her grandfather met them, having seen at last what had 
happened from the door. 

"Dada," she said, "he fell into the pool yonder, and was 
battered against the rocks. See there at his forehead." 

"Mally, I'm thinking that he's dead already," said old Glos, 
peering down over the body. 

"No, dada; he is not dead; but mayhap he's dying. But 
I'll go at once up to the farm." 

"Mally," said the old man, "look at his head. They'll 
say we murdered him." 

"Who'll say so? Who'll lie like that? Didn't I pull him 
out of the hole?" 

"What matters that? His father '11 say we killed him." 

It was manifest to Mally that whatever anyone might say 
hereafter, her present course was plain before her. She must 
run up the path to Gunliffe's farm and get necessary assistance. 
If the world were as bad as her grandfather said, it would be 



46 MALACHI'S COVE 

so bad that she would not care to live longer in it. But be that 
as it might, there was no doubt as to what she must do now. 

So away she went as fast as her naked feet could carry her up 
the cliff. When at the top she looked round to see if any 
person might be within ken, but she saw no one. So she ran 
with her all speed along the headland of the cornfield which led 
in the direction of old Gunliffe's house, and as she drew near to 
the homestead she saw that Barty's mother was leaning on the 
gate. As she approached, she attempted to call, but her 
breath failed her for any purpose of loud speech, so she ran 
on till she was able to grasp Mrs. Gunliffe by the arm. 

"Where's himself?" she said, holding her hand upon her 
beating heart that she might husband her breath. 

"Who is it you mean?" said Mrs. Gunliffe, who participated 
in the family feud against Trenglos and his granddaughter. 
"What does the girl clutch me for in that way?" 

"He's dying then, that's all." 

"Who is dying? Is it old Malachi? If the old man's bad, 
we'll send some one down." 

"It ain't dada, it's Barty! Where's himself? where 's the 
master?" But by this time Mrs. Gunliffe was in an agony of 
despair, and was calling out for assistance lustily. Happily 
Gunliffe, the father, was at hand, and with him a man from the 
neighbouring village. 

"Will you not send for the doctor?" said Mally. "Oh, man, 
you should send for the doctor!" 

Whether any orders were given for the doctor she did not 
know, but in a very few minutes she was hurrying across the 
held again towards the path to the cove, and Gunliffe with the 
other man and his wife were following her. 

As Mally went along she recovered her voice, for their step 
was not so quick as hers, and that which to them was a hurried 
movement, allowed her to get her breath again. And as she 
went she tried to explain to the father what had happened, 



ANTHONY TROLLOPE 47 

saying but little, however, of her own doings in the matter. 
The wife hung behind listening, exclaiming every now and again 
that her boy was killed, and then asking wild questions as to his 
being yet alive. The father, as he went, said little. He was 
known as a silent, sober man, well spoken of for diligence and 
general conduct, but supposed to be stern and very hard when 
angered. 

As they drew near to the top of the path, the other man 
whispered something to him, and then he turned round upon 
Mally and stopped her. 

"If he has come by his death between you, your blood shall 
be taken for his," said he. 

Then the wife shrieked out that her child had been murdered, 
and Mally, looking round into the faces of the three, saw that 
her grandfather's words had come true. They suspected her 
of having taken the life, in saving which she had nearly lost 
her own. 

She looked round at them with awe in her face, and then, 
without saying a word, preceded them down the path. What 
had she to answer when such a charge as that was made against 
her? If they chose to say that she pushed him into the pool, 
and hit him with her hook as he lay amidst the waters, how could 
she show that it was not so? 

Poor Mally knew little of the law of evidence, and it seemed 
to her that she was in their hands. But as she went down 
the steep track with a hurried step, — a step so quick that they 
could not keep up with her, — her heart was very full, — very 
full and very high. She had striven for the man's life as though 
he had been her brother. The blood was yet not dry on her own 
legs and arms, where she had torn them in his service. At one 
moment she had felt sure that she would die with him in that 
pool. And now they said that she had murdered him! It 
may be that he was not dead, and what would he say if ever 
he should speak again? Then she thought of that moment when 



48 MALACHI'S COVE 

his eyes had opened, and he had seemed to see her. She had 
no fear for herself, for her heart was very high. But it was 
full also, — full of scorn, disdain, and wrath. 

When she had reached the bottom, she stood close to the door 
of the hut waiting for them, so that they might precede her to 
the other group, which was there in front of them, at a little 
distance on the sand. 

"He is there, and dada is with him. Go and look at him/' 
said Mally. 

The father and mother ran on stumbling over the stones, 
but Mally remained behind by the door of the hut. 

Barty Gunliffe was lying on the sand where Mally had left 
him, and old Malachi Trenglos was standing over him, resting 
himself with difficulty upon a stick. 

"Not a move he's moved since she left him," said he, "not 
a move. I put his head on the old rug as you see, and I tried 
'un with a drop of gin, but he wouldn't take it, — he wouldn't 
take it." 

"Oh, my boy! my boy!" said the mother, throwing herself 
beside her son upon the sand. 

"Haud your tongue, woman," said the father, kneeling 
down slowly by the lad's head, "whimpering that way will do 
'un no good." 

Then having gazed for a minute or two upon the pale face 
beneath him, he looked up sternly into that of Malachi 
Trenglos. 

The old man hardly knew how to bear this terrible inquisition. 

"He would come," said Malachi; "he brought it all upon 
hisself." 

"Who was it struck him?" said the father. 

"Sure he struck hisself, as he fell among the breakers." 

"Liar!" said the father, looking up at the old man. 

"They have murdered him! — they have murdered him!" 
shrieked the mother. 



ANTHONY TROLLOPE 49 

"Haud your peace, woman!" said the husband again. "They 
shall give us blood for blood." 

Mally, leaning against the corner of the hovel, heard it all, 
but did not stir. They might say what they liked. They 
might make it out to be murder. They might drag her and her 
grandfather to Camelford Gaol, and then to Bodmin, and the 
gallows; but they could not take from her the conscious feeling 
that was her own. She had done her best to save him, — her 
very best. And she had saved him! 

She remembered her threat to him before they had gone down 
on the rocks together, and her evil wish. Those words had 
been very wicked; but since that she had risked her life to save 
his. They might say what they pleased of her, and do what 
they pleased. She knew what she knew. 

Then the father raised his son's head and shoulders in his 
arms, and called on the others to assist him in carrying Barty 
towards the path. They raised him between them carefully 
and tenderly, and lifted their burden on towards the spot at 
which Mally was standing. She never moved, but watched 
them at their work; and the old man followed them, hobbling 
after them with his crutch. 

When they had reached the end of the hut she looked upon 
Barty's face, and saw that it was very pale. There was no 
longer blood upon the forehead, but the great gash was to be 
seen there plainly, with its jagged cut, and the skin livid and 
blue round the orifice. His light brown hair was hanging 
back, as she had made it to hang when she had gathered it with 
her hand after the big wave had passed over them. Ah, how 
beautiful he was in Mally's eyes with that pale face, and the 
sad scar upon his brow! She turned her face away, that they 
might not see her tears; but she did not move, nor did she speak. 

But now, when they had passed the end of the hut, shuffling 
along with their burden, she heard a sound which stirred her. 
She roused herself quickly from her leaning posture, and stretched 



50 MALACHI'S COVE 

forth her head as though to listen; then she moved to follow 
them. Yes, they had stopped at the bottom of the path, and 
had again laid the body on the rocks. She heard that sound 
again, as of a long, long sigh, and then, regardless of any of 
them, she ran to the wounded man's head. 

"He is not dead," she said. "There; he is not dead." 

As she spoke Barty's eyes opened, and he looked about him. 

"Barty, my boy, speak to me," said the mother. 

Barty turned his face upon his mother, smiled, and then 
stared about him wildly. 

"How is it with thee, lad?" said his father. Then Barty 
turned his face again to the latter voice, and as he did so his 
eyes fell upon Mally. 

"Mally!"hesaid, "Mally!" 

It could have wanted nothing further to any of those present 
to teach them that, according to Barty's own view of the case, 
Mally had not been his enemy! and, in truth, Mally herself 
wanted no further triumph. That word had vindicated her, 
and she withdrew back to the hut. 

"Dada," she said, "Barty is not dead, and I'm thinking they 
won't say anything more about our hurting him." 

Old Glos shook his head. He was glad the lad hadn't met his 
death there; he didn't want the young man's blood, but he knew 
what folks would say. The poorer he was the more sure the 
world would be to trample on him. Mally said what she could 
to comfort him, being full of comfort herself. 

She would have crept up to the farm if she dared, to ask 
how Barty was. But her courage failed her when she thought 
of that, so she went to work again, dragging back the weed she 
had saved to the spot at which on the morrow she would load 
the donkey. As she did this she saw Barty's pony still standing 
patiently under the rock, so she got a lock of fodder and threw 
it down before the beast. 

It had become dark down in the cove, but she was still drag- 



ANTHONY TROLLOPE 51 

ging back the seaweed, when she saw the glimmer of a lantern 
coming down the pathway. It was a most unusual sight, for 
lanterns were not common down in Malachi's Cove. Down 
came the lantern rather slowly, — much more slowly than she 
was in the habit of descending, and then through the gloom she 
saw the figure of a man standing at the bottom of the path. 
She went up to him, and saw that it was Mr. Gunliffe, the father. 

"Is that Mally?" said Gunliffe. 

"Yes, it is Mally; and how is Barty, Mr. Gunliffe?" 

"You must come to 'un yourself, now at once," said the 
farmer. "He won't sleep a wink till he's seed you. You must 
not say but you'll come." 

"Sure I'll come if I'm wanted," said Mally. 

Gunliffe waited a moment, thinking that Mally might have 
to prepare herself, but Mally needed no preparation. She 
was dripping with salt water from the weed which she had 
been dragging, and her elfin locks were streaming wildly from her 
head; but, such as she was, she was ready. 

"Dada's in bed," she said, "and I can go now if you please." 

Then Gunliffe turned round and followed her up the path, 
wondering at the life which this girl led so far away from all 
her sex. It was now dark night, and he had found her working 
at the very edge of the rolling waves by herself, in the darkness, 
while the only human being who might seem to be her pro- 
tector had already gone to his bed. 

When they were at the top of the cliff Gunliffe took her by 
her hand, and led her along. She did not comprehend this, 
but she made no attempt to take her hand from his. Some- 
thing he said about falling on the cliffs, but it was muttered so 
lowly that Mally hardly understood him. But, in truth the 
man knew that she had saved his boy's life, and that he had 
injured her instead of thanking her. He was now taking her 
to his heart, and as words were wanting to him, he was showing 
his love after this silent fashion. He held her by the hand as 



52 MALACHI'S COVE 

though she were a child, and Mally tripped along at his side 
asking him no questions. 

When they were at the farmyard gate, he stopped there for 
a moment. 

"Mally, my girl," he said, "he'll not be content till he sees 
thee, but thou must not stay long wi' him, lass. Doctor says 
he's weak like, and wants sleep badly." 

Mally merely nodded her head, and then they entered the 
house. Mally had never been within it before, and looked about 
with wondering eyes at the furniture of the big kitchen. Did 
any idea of her future destiny flash upon her then, I wonder? 
But she did not pause here a moment, but was led up to the 
bedroom above stairs, where Barty was lying on his mother's 
bed. 

"Is it Mally herself?" said the voice of the weak youth. 

"It's Mally herself," said the mother, "so now you can say 
what you please." 

"Mally," said he, "Mally, it's along of you that I'm alive 
this moment." 

"I'll not forget it on her," said the father, with his eyes 
turned away from her. "I'll never forget it on her." 

"We hadn't a one but only him," said the mother, with 
her apron up to her face. 

"Mally, you'll be friends with me now?" said Barty. 

To have been made lady of the manor of the cove forever, 
Mally couldn't have spoken a word now. It was not only 
that the words and presence of the people there cowed her and 
made her speechless, but the big bed, and the looking-glass, 
and the unheard-of wonders of the chamber made her feel 
her own insignificance. But she crept up to Barty's side, and 
put her hand upon his. 

"I'll come and get the weed, Mally; but it shall all be for 
you," said Barty. 

"Indeed, you won't then, Barty dear," said the mother; 



ANTHONY TROLLOPE 53 

"you'll never go near the awesome place again. What would 
we do if you were took from us?" 

"He mustn' go near the hole if he does," said Mally, speaking 
at last in a solemn voice, and imparting the knowledge which 
she had kept to herself while Barty was her enemy; " 'specially 
not if the wind's any way from the nor'ard." 

"She'd better go down now," said the father. 

Barty kissed the hand which he held, and Mally, looking at 
him as he did so, thought that he was like an angel. 

"You'll come and see us to-morrow, Mally," said he. 

To this she made no answer, but followed Mrs. Gunliffe 
out of the room. When they were down in the kitchen, the 
mother had tea for her, and thick milk, and a hot cake, — all 
the delicacies which the farm could afford. I don't know that 
Mally cared much for the eating and drinking that night, but 
she began to think that the Gunliffes were good people, — very 
good people. It was better thus, at any rate, than being accused 
of murder and carried off to Camelford prison. 

"I'll never forget it on her — never," the father had said. 

Those words stuck to her from that moment, and seemed to 
sound in her ears all the night. How glad she was that Barty 
had come down to the cove, — oh, yes, how glad! There was 
no question of his dying now, and as for the blow on his forehead, 
what harm was that to a lad like him? 

"But father shall go with you," said Mrs. Gunliffe, when 
Mally prepared to start for the cove by herself. Mally, how- 
ever, would not hear of this. She could find her way to the 
cove whether it was light or dark. 

"Mally, thou art my child now, and I shall think of thee so," 
said the mother, as the girl went off by herself. 

Mally thought of this, too, as she walked home. How could 
she become Mrs. Gunliffe's child; ah, how? 

I need not, I think, tell the tale any further. That Mally 
did become Mrs. Gunliffe's child, and how she became so the 



54 MALACHTS COVE 

reader will understand; and in process of time the big kitchen 
and all the wonders of the farmhouse were her own. The 
people said that Barty Gunliffe had married a mermaid out of 
the sea; but when it was said in Mally's hearing I doubt whether 
she liked it; and when Barty himself would call her a mermaid 
she would frown at him, and throw about her black hair, and 
pretend to cuff him with her little hand. 

Old Glos was brought up to the top of the cliff, and lived 
his few remaining days under the roof of Mr. Gunliffe's house; 
and as for the cove and the right of seaweed, from that time 
forth all that has been supposed to attach itself to Gunliffe's 
farm, and I do not know that any of the neighbours are pre- 
pared to dispute the right. 



IV. L'ARRABBIATA 1 
Paul Heyse 

The sun had not yet risen. Over Vesuvius a broad grey 
cloud of mist, stretching toward Naples, darkened the villages 
on that part of the coast. The sea lay calm. Along the sea- 
wall, built in a narrow cove under the high Sorrentine cliffs, 
fishermen and their wives were already bestirring themselves. 
By means of stout cables they were drawing to shore the boats 
and nets which had been out overnight. Others were rigging 
their barks, or pulling oars and masts from the huge barred 
vaults in the rocks. No one was idle. Even the aged, who 
could make no more voyages, formed links in the chain of 
those who pulled at the nets. Here and there on the flat 
roofs little old grandmothers were standing with their spindles 
or were busying themselves with their grandchildren while the 
daughters helped their husbands. 

"Look there, Rochella, there is our Padre Curato," said one 
old woman to a little thing of ten at her side, who was swinging 
her own small spindle. "He is just climbing into a boat. 
Antonino will take him across to Capri. Maria Santissima, 
how sleepy his Reverence looks!" 

With this she waved her hand to a small friendly looking 
priest, who, having carefully lifted up his black coat and spread 
it over the wooden seat, was just settling himself in the bark. 
The others on shore stopped work in order to watch the depar- 
ture of their padre, who was bowing and smiling pleasantly to 
right and left. 

"Why does he have to go to Capri, grandma?" asked the 
child. "Do the people over there have to borrow our priest 
because they haven't any?" 

1 Translation copyrighted by the editors. This story is discussed on pages 12-14. 



56 L'ARRABBIATA 

" Don't be so silly," said the old woman. " They have enough 
priests, and fine churches, and even a hermit, which we haven 't. 
But over there is a great Signora. For a long time she lived in 
Sorrento and was so very sick that when they thought she 
couldn't last through the night, the padre had to go to her often 
with the Most Holy Host. But the Holy Virgin helped her and 
she has become happy again and well, and can bathe in the sea 
every day. When she went from here to Capri, she gave a pile 
of ducats to the church and to the poor. She wouldn't leave, 
they say, until the padre promised to go over to see her so that 
she could confess to him. We 're lucky to have him for a priest. 
He is as gifted as an archbishop and in great demand with 
people of rank. May the Madonna be with him!" And 
with this she waved down to the little boat that was just 
casting off. 

The priest looked anxiously across the bay toward Naples. 
"Shall we have good weather, my boy?" he asked. 

"The sun isn't up yet," answered the young man; "but 
when it comes, it will make short work of that bit of mist." 

"Go ahead then, so that we arrive before the heat." 

Antonino had just reached for the long oar to push the 
boat out, when he stopped and looked up toward the top of 
the steep path that leads from the village of Sorrento down 
to the quay. The slender figure of a girl, hurrying down the 
stones and waving her handkerchief, came into view. She 
was poorly enough clad and carried a little bundle under her 
arm. She had a way of tossing her head that might have 
been noble had there not been a touch of wildness about it. 
The black braids which she had wound about her forehead 
became her like a crown. 

"What are we waiting for?" asked the priest. 

" Somebody else, who probably wants to go to Capri, is coming 
down. If you don't mind, Padre, — we'll not go any the 
slower for that. She's only a young thing, hardly eighteen." 



PAUL HEYSE 57 

At this instant the girl stepped out from behind the wall that 
bordered the winding path. "Laurella?" said the priest. 
"What has she to do in Capri?" 

Antonino shrugged his shoulders. The girl hurried forward 
looking straight before her. 

"Hello, l'Arrabbiata!" 1 cried several of the young sailors. 
They would probably have said more if the presence of the cu- 
rate had not restrained them; for the haughty, silent way in 
which the young girl took the greeting seemed to irritate several 
of the bolder spirits among them. 

"How do you do, Laurella?" said the priest. "How are 
you? Will you go to Capri with us? " 

"If I may, Padre." 

"Ask Antonino. He is captain of the ship. Each is master 
of his own and God is master of us all." 

"Here is a half carlino," said Laurella, without looking at 
the young boatman, "if you can take me for that?" 

"You can use it better than I," the boy muttered as he 
pushed back some of the baskets of oranges to make room 
for her. He was to sell them at Capri, for the little island 
does not produce enough for the consumption of its many 
tourists. 

"I won't go for nothing," said the girl, and her black eye- 
brows scowled. 

"Come, child," said the priest, "he is a good boy and does 
not want to get rich on your bit of poverty. Come, climb 
in," and he offered her his hand, — "sit down beside me. See, 
he has put down his coat so that you will have a more comfort- 
able place. He was not so good to me, but young people . . . 
they're all that way. More pains are taken for one young 
lady than for ten holy fathers. There, there, do not excuse 
yourself, Tonino. The dear Lord so arranged it, that like is 
attracted to like." 

1 "Cross-patch." 



58 L'ARRABBIATA 

Laurella, in the mean time, had got into the boat. Without 
saying a word to anybody, she pushed the coat to one side, 
and sat down. The young sailor muttered something between 
his teeth, then he pushed vigorously against the quay and the 
little boat flew out into the bay. 

"What have you in your bundle?" asked the priest as they 
glided over the sea, which was just lighting up with the first 
rays of the sun. 

"Silk, yarn, and a loaf of bread, Padre. I'm going to sell the 
silk to a lady in Capri who makes ribbons, and the yarn is for 
another woman." 

"Did you spin it yourself?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"If I remember correctly, you learned how to weave ribbons, 
too?" 

"Yes, sir. But mother is worse again so that I can't leave 
the house, and we can't pay for a loom of our own." 

"Worse? Dear, dear! But she was sitting up when I called 
at Easter." 

"Spring is always the worst time for her. Since the big 
storms and the earthquakes she has had to be in bed all day 
because of her pain." 

"Keep on praying and begging, child. The Holy Virgin 
may intercede. And be good and industrious so that your prayer 
may be heard." 

After a pause: "When you came down to the shore — they 
called, 'Hello l'Arrabbiata!' Why do they call you that? 
It isn't a nice name for a Christian, who should be meek and 
humble." 

A flush covered the girl's brown face and her eyes flashed. 

"They make fun of me because I do not sing and dance and 
talk a lot like the others. They ought to let me alone. I 
do nothing to them." 

"But you can be friendly to everybody. Let the others 



PAUL HEYSE 59 

dance and sing. Their life is easier. But a good word sounds 
well, even if you are not happy." 

She bowed her head and contracted her dark eyebrows as 
though she wanted to hide her black eyes beneath them. For 
a while they rowed in silence. The sun now stood gloriously 
above the mountains, the peak of Vesuvius towered through the 
blanket of vapors that still covered its base; and the houses 
on the plain of Sorrento gleamed white in their green orange- 
gardens. 

"Have you heard anything from that painter, Laurella, 
that Neopolitan, who wanted to marry you?" asked the priest. 

She shook her head. 

"He came to draw a picture of you. Why did you not let 
him?" 

"What did he want it for? There are others prettier than 
I. And then . . . who knows what he would have done with 
it. He might have bewitched me with it and lost me my soul, or 
he might have even brought about my death, my mother said." 

"Don't believe such sinful things," said the preacher earnestly. 
"Are you not always in God's hand, without whose will not 
a hair can fall from your head? And can a man with such a 
picture in his hand be stronger than God? From that you 
should see that he was fond of you. Did he want to marry 
you?" 

She was silent. 

"And why did you refuse him? He is said to have been a 
good man, and very handsome, and he could have supported 
you and your mother better than you can do with your bit 
of spinning and silk winding." 

"We are poor people," she said fiercely, "and my mother has 
been sick for such a long time. We should only have been a 
burden to him. And I am not good enough for a signor. 
When his friends came to see him, he would have been ashamed 
of me." 



60 L'ARRABBIATA 

"How you talk! I tell you he was a good man. He even 
wanted to move over to Sorrento. It will be a long time before 
another man like that comes. He was sent from heaven to 
help you." 

"I don't want a husband at all!" she said stubbornly, as if 
talking to herself. 

"Have you taken a vow, or do you want to enter a convent?" 

She shook her head. 

"People who hold your stubborness up to you are right, 
even though the name they call you for it isn't very pretty. 
Remember that you are not alone in the world and that you 
make your mother's life and her illness harder because of your 
perversity. What weighty reasons can you have for refusing 
every honest hand that reaches out to support you and your 
mother? Answer me, Laurella." 

"I have a reason," she answered softly, and hesitatingly, 
"but I cannot tell it." 

"You cannot tell it? Not even to me? Not to your father 
confessor whom you used to trust as wishing you well? Or did 
you not?" 

She nodded. 

"Do unburden your heart, child. If you are right, I will be 
the first one to say so. But you are young and do not 
know the world very well, and you might regret it later if 
you have thrown away your happiness because of childish 
notions." 

She threw a quick shy glance over her shoulder at the boy who 
sat behind them with his cap drawn down over his eyes, busily 
rowing. He was looking over the side into the water and seemed 
to be sunk in his own thoughts. The priest saw the glance 
and leaned closer to her. 

"You did not know my father," she whispered, and her 
eyes darkened. 

"Your father? He died, didn't he, when you were barely 



PAUL HEYSE 61 

ten years old. What has your father — may his soul rest in 
paradise — to do with your stubbornness?" 

"You did not know him, Padre. You do not know that he 
alone is to blame for mother's illness." 

"How is that?" 

"Because he ill-treated her, and beat her, and kicked her. 
I still remember the nights when he would come home raging. 
She would never say a word to him and would do everything 
he wanted. But he beat her so that my heart would nearly 
break. Then I would pull the cover over my head and would 
pretend to be asleep, but I would cry all night. And then 
when he would see her lying on the floor, he would change 
suddenly. He would pick her up and kiss her so that she would 
cry out he was going to suffocate her. Mother forbade me to 
say a word about it; but it weakened her so that in all these 
years since his death she has never been well. And if she should 
die, which Heaven forbid, I shall know who is to blame." 

The little priest nodded his head gently and seemed unde- 
cided as to how far he should agree with his parishioner. Fi- 
nally he said: "Forgive him as your mother has forgiven him. 
Do not think of those sad things, Laurella. Better times are 
in store for you and they will make you forget all this." 

"I shall never forget it," she said, with a shudder. "And 
listen, Padre, that is why I never want to marry. I never want 
to submit to anyone who would abuse me and then caress me. 
Now, when somebody wants to strike me or kiss me I know 
how to protect myself. But my mother couldn't protect her- 
self, either from the blows or from the kisses, because she 
loved him. I ... I never want to love anyone so much 
that I should become sick and miserable for his sake." 

"You talk and act just like a child that knows nothing about 
what happens in the world. Are all men like your poor father? 
Do they all yield to every mood and passion and abuse their 
wives? Have you not seen enough honest people in the neigh- 



62 L'ARRABBIATA 

borhood, and enough wives that live in peace and harmony 
with their husbands?" 

" Nobody knew about my father either, and how he acted to 
my mother; for she would have died ten thousand times rather 
than have told anybody or complained. And all of that be- 
cause she loved him. If that's the way love is, if it closes your 
lips when you should cry for help, and makes you defenseless 
against worse harm than your worst enemy could do to you, 
I will never give my heart to any man." 

"I tell you that you are a child and do not know what you are 
saying. Your heart will not ask you if you want to love or not; 
and when the right time comes, all this that you have put in 
your head will not help you." Again, after a pause — "And 
that painter, did you believe him capable of being cruel to you?" 

"He made eyes like those I saw my father make when he would 
step away from mother and want to take her in his arms again 
and say nice things to her. That sort of eyes I know very well. 
They can belong to a man who allows himself to beat a wife 
who has never done him any harm. It frightened me to see 
those eyes again." 

Then she was persistently silent. The priest was silent too. 
He remembered many a pretty passage from the Bible that he 
could have held up to the girl. But the presence of the young 
sailor, who had become restless toward the end of the con- 
fession, closed his mouth. 

When, after two hours, they had arrived in the little harbor 
of Capri, Antonino lifted the reverend father out of the boat, 
carried him through the shallow water, and set him down 
respectfully. But Laurella did not wish to wait for Antonino 
to return. She pulled her skirts together, took her wooden 
shoes in her right hand, her bundle in the left, and splashed hur- 
riedly to shore. 

"I shall probably stay late in Capri," said the padre, "and 
you need not wait for me. Perhaps I shall not come home until 



PAUL HEYSE 63 

to-morrow. And you, Laurella, when you get back, greet 
your mother for me. I shall call on her this week. Shall you 
be going back before night?" 

"Yes, if I have a chance," said the girl, and pretended to be 
arranging her dress. 

"You know that I have to go back," said Antonino, in what 
he thought a very indifferent tone of voice. "I'll wait for 
you until Ave Maria. If you do not get here by then it will 
be all the same to me." 

"You must come, Laurella," interrupted the little man. 

"You cannot leave your mother alone all night Is 

it far, where you are going?" 

"To a vineyard in Anacapri." 

"And I must go toward Capri. God bless you, child, and you, 
my son." 

Laurella kissed his hand and murmured a farewell which the 
Padre and Antonino might divide between them. Antonino, 
however, did not appropriate it. He took off his hat to the 
padre and did not look at Laurella. 

When both had turned their backs to him, however, he let 
his eyes rest only a short time on the reverend father, who was 
ploughing his way with difficulty through the bed of loose gravel; 
and then he turned toward the girl, who, with her hands before 
her eyes to protect them against the glare, had started for the 
hill on the opposite side. At a point where the road entered the 
walls on the heights, she stood still a moment as though to take 
breath and look round. The quay lay at her feet; round 
her towered the cliffs; the sea was a strangely glorious blue. 
It was well worth a minute's stop. But it happened that her 
glance, hurrying past Antonino's boat, met the glance which 
he had sent after her. They each made a movement as people 
do who want to excuse themselves for something that has 
happened only by mistake, then the girl, with a dark expression 
about her mouth, continued her way. 



64 L'ARRABBIATA 

It was just an hour after noon, but Antonino had already 
been sitting for two hours upon the bench before the tavern 
which the fisherman frequented. Something seemed to be on 
his mind, for he would jump up every five minutes, step out into 
the sunshine, and carefully scrutinize the two roads that led to 
the left and to the right toward the two island villages. The 
weather seemed suspicious to him, he would say to the landlady 
of the tavern. To be sure, it was still clear, but he knew what 
this color in the sky and sea meant. It had looked just like 
that before the last great storm when he had been able to reach 
shore with the English family only with the greatest effort. 
The landlady would probably remember. 

"No," said the landlady. 

Well, she should think of him, if it didn't change before 
nightfall. 

"Are there many tourists up in the town?" asked the land- 
lady after a while. 

"It is just beginning. Until now we have had pretty bad 
times. Those who come for bathing still delay." 

"We have had a late spring. Have you made more money 
than we at Capri? 

"If I had had only the boat, I shouldn't have been able to 
eat macaroni twice a week. Now and then I had to take a letter 
to Naples, or row a signor out into the bay for fishing; but that 
was all. But you know that my uncle has some big orange 
gardens and is a rich man. " 'Tonino' , he said, 'as long as I 
live you shall not suffer want. And afterwards you will be 
taken care of.' So with God's help, I got through the winter." 

"Has your uncle any children?" 

"No. He was never married and was abroad for a long time, 
where he picked up many a good piaster. Now he intends to 
open a large fishery and put me in charge of the entire business 
Bo that I can look after it. " 

"So your future is made, Antonino." 



PAUL HEYSE 05 

The young sailor shrugged his shoulders. 

"Everybody has his own burden to carry," he said. Then 
he jumped up and looked to the right and the left as though 
questioning the weather, although he must have known that 
there was only one weather side. 

"I'll bring you another bottle. Your uncle can pay for it,' ; 
said the hostess. 

"Just a glass. You have a fiery wine here, and my head is 
already getting hot." 

"It doesn't get into the blood. You can drink as much as 
you want. Here comes my husband. You'll have to stay 
a while and talk to him." 

With his net hung over his shoulders, his red cap pulled down 
about his curly hair, the stately host of the inn was just returning 
from the heights. He had taken the fish which had been 
ordered by the rich signora who wanted them for the dinner of 
the padre of Sorrento. When he became aware of the young 
sailor, he waved him a hearty welcome and then sat down 
beside him on the bench and began to talk and ask questions. 
His wife was just bringing a second bottle of the pure unadul- 
terated Capri, when the sand at the left crunched, and Laurella 
came down the road from Anacapri. She nodded her head 
slightly, and stood still as though undecided. 

Antonino jumped up. "I must go," he said. "It's a girl 
that came over this morning with the Signor Curato and who 
wants to go home to-night to her sick mother." 

"Oh come, it's a long time till night," said the fisherman. 
"She will have time to drink a glass of wine, too. Wife, bring 
another glass." 

"'Thanks, but I'll not drink," said Laurella, and remained 
at some distance. 

"Fill up the glass, wife. Fill up the glass. She wants to be 
persuaded." 

"Let her alone," said the boy. "She's determined. What 



66 L'ARRABBIATA 

she doesn't want, no saint can make her take." And with 
this he took a hurried farewell, ran down to the boat, untied 
the rope, and stood waiting for the girl. She said good-bye 
to the hostess of the inn and walked hesitatingly after. First 
she looked around on all sides, as if she expected that there would 
be other passengers. The quay, however, was deserted; the 
fishermen were sleeping or were out in the bay with their lines 
and nets. A few women and children were sitting at their 
doors, sleeping or spinning, and the strangers who had come 
across in the morning were waiting for a cooler time of day to 
go back. She could not look about for long, however; for before 
she could stop him, Antonino had taken her in his arms and 
carried her like a child to the boat. Then he jumped in after 
her, and with a few strokes of the oars they were out in the 
open sea. 

She seated herself in the bow and half turned her back to 
him, so that he could see her only from the side. Her expres- 
sion was now even more serious than usual. Her hair hung 
down over the low forehead, a willful expression trembled 
around the fine nostrils, her full mouth was tightly closed. 
After they had gone on silently for a while, she felt the heat of 
the sun, took the bread out of its cloth, and put the latter 
over her hair. Then she began to make her dinner of the bread, 
for she had eaten nothing at Capri. 

Antonino could not long watch her in idleness. He took 
two oranges from a basket he had brought over full in the morn- 
ing, and said: "Here is something to eat with your bread, 
Laurella. Don't think that I kept them for you. They rolled 
out of the basket into the boat, and I found them when I put 
the empty baskets back again. " 

"You eat them. This bread is enough for me." 

"They are refreshing in the heat, and you've been walking 
a long time." 

"They gave me a glass of water back there that refreshed me. " 



PAUL HEYSE 67 

"As you will," he said and let them fall back into the basket, 

A new silence. The sea was calm as a mirror and hardly 
stirred about the keel. Even the white sea birds that nest in 
caves on the shore went about their work of pillage in silence. 

"You might take these two oranges to your mother," An- 
tonino began again. 

"We still have some left at home, and when they are gone, 
I'll go and buy some more." 

"Take them to your mother with my compliments. " 

"She does not know you." 

"You could tell her who I am." 

"I do not know you either." 

It was not the first time that she had denied knowing him 
in this way. A year before, when the painter had first come to 
Sorrento, it happened one Sunday that Antonino, with some 
other young fellows of the town, was playing boccia in a square 
near the main street. There, the painter for the first time 
met Laurella, who walked past without seeing him as she carried 
a water jug on her head. The young Neopolitan, struck by 
her beauty, stood still and watched her, although he was directly 
in the course of the game and could have got out of the way 
by moving a few steps to either side. A ball, none too gently 
thrown, that hit his ankle, reminded him that this was not the 
place to lose himself in thought. He looked around as though 
he expected an apology. The young sailor who had rolled the 
ball stood silent and defiant among his friends and the stranger 
found it better to avoid an argument and to pass on. But people 
had talked about the affair and they talked still more when the 
painter openly courted Laurella. "I do not know him," she 
had said rather unwillingly, when the artist had asked her if 
she was refusing him because of that impolite boy. And she, 
too, had heard about the gossip. But since then, whenever she 
met Tonino, she had recognized him well enough. 

So now they sat in the boat like the bitterest enemies and 



68 L'ARRABBIATA 

the hearts of both were beating violently. Antonino's face, 
which was usually good-natured, was intensely red; his oars 
struck the waves so that the foam flew over him, and at inter- 
vals his lips trembled as though he were speaking evil words. 
She pretended not to notice him, looked unconcerned, and 
leaned over the edge of the boat to let the water run through her 
ringers. Then she took the cloth from her head and arranged 
her hair as though she were all alone in the boat. Only her 
eyebrows wrinkled and she held her wet hands on her cheeks 
to cool them in vain. 

Now they were in the middle of the bay and neither near nor 
far was there a sail to be seen. The island had been left behind 
and the shore lay far off in the hazy sunlight. Not even a 
seagull flew through the deep loneliness. Antonino looked 
around. A thought seemed to strike him. The red suddenly 
disappeared from his cheeks and he let the oars fall. Involun- 
tarily Laurella, tense but fearless, looked at him. 

"This must stop," the boy suddenly burst out. "This has 
been going on long enough and it's a wonder that I haven't gone 
to pieces over it. 'You don't know me/ you say. Haven't 
you seen that I have been passing you like a madman, with my 
heart full of things to say to you? You put on your sullen look 
and turn your back on me." 

"What did I have to say to you?" she replied shortly. "I 
have seen that you wanted to pick up an acquaintance with me ; 
but I didn't want people to gossip about me for nothing at 
all. I don't want you for a husband, you or anyone else!" 

"Anyone else? You won't always talk like that! Because 
you sent the painter away? Bah! You were just a child then. 
You'll get lonesome sometime, and then, silly as you are, 
you'll take the first one you see." 

"Nobody can tell his future. It may be that I will change 
my mind. What business is it of yours?" 

"What business is it of mine?" he cried, and jumped up from 



PAUL HEYSE 69 

the rowing bench so that the little boat shook. "What business 
is it of mine? And you still ask that when you know how I feel? 
May anyone whom you treat better than me die in misery!" 

"Did I ever promise you anything? Can I help it that your 
head's a little off? What sort of right have you over me?" 

"Oh," he cried, "it isn't written down. No lawyer put it 
into Latin and sealed it, but this I know, I've as much right to 
have you as to enter heaven if I've been an honest man. Do 
you think I like to stand and watch you when you go to church 
with some one else, and the girls go past me and shrug their 
shoulders? Do you think I'll let myself be made a fool of like 
that?" 

" Do as you like. You can't frighten me no matter how much 
you threaten. I'll do as I please, too." 

"You won't talk that way very long," he said trembling. 
"I am man enough not to let my life be ruined any longer by 
such stubbornness. Do you know that you are in my power 
here and that you must do what I want?" 

She drew back slightly, but her eyes flashed. 

"Kill me if you dare," she said slowly. 

"One shouldn't do things half way," he Said and his voice 
was hoarse. "There is room for both of us in the sea. I 
can't help you, child." He spoke sympathetically as from a 
dream. "But we must go over — both of us — at the same 
time — and now\" He shouted this last at the top of his voice 
and suddenly took hold of her with both arms. But almost 
immediately he pulled back his right hand. Blood spurted 
from it. In her passion she had bitten him sharply. 

" Must I do what you want?" she cried, and with a quick turn 
she pushed him away. "Let's see if I'm in your power!" 
With this she jumped overboard and disappeared for a second 
in the depths. 

She reappeared almost immediately. Her dress was wrapped 
tightly about her. Her hair, loosened by the waves, hung down 



70 L'ARRABBIATA 

heavily over her neck. Her arms moved steadily and without 
a word she swam away from the boat toward the shore. A 
sudden fear seemed to have paralyzed the boy's senses. He 
stood in the boat half stooping, his eyes staring after her, as 
though a miracle were happening. Then he shook himself, 
jumped for the oars and rowed after her with all the strength 
he could command, while the floor of the boat became redder with 
his blood. 

Although she was swimming quickly he was beside her in 
a moment. "Maria Santissima!" he cried, "Come back to 
the boat. I've been a fool. God knows what befogged my 
brain. Something flashed in my brain like lightning from 
heaven and I was afire and didn't know what I was doing or 
saying. I shan't ask you to forgive me, Laurella, just come 
back to the boat and save your life I " 

She swam on as though she had heard nothing. 

"You can't reach shore. It's two good miles from here. 
Think of your mother. If something should happen to you 
she'd die of horror." 

With a glance she measured the distance to the shore. Then, 
without saying a word, she swam to the boat and grasped 
the sides with both hands. He stood up to help her. His 
coat, which had been lying on the bench, slipped into the ocean 
when the boat tipped to one side with her weight. She pulled 
herself up gracefully and climbed into her old place. Then, 
when he saw that she was safe, he took his oars again. She, 
however, wrung out her dress and pressed the water from her 
braids. In doing this she looked at the bottom of the boat and 
noticed the blood. She glanced quickly at his hand. It 
held the oar as though it were not wounded. "Here," she 
said, and she handed him her cloth. He shook his head and 
kept on rowing. Finally she stood up, stepped over to him, 
and bound the cloth tightly round the deep wound. Then in 
spite of his struggle she took the oar and sat down beside him. 



PAUL HEYSE 71 

She did this without looking at him. With her eyes fastened 
on the oar that was reddened with blood she drove the boat 
along with strong strokes. They were both pale and quiet. 
When they approached the land they met some fishermen 
going to put their nets out over night. They called to An- 
tonino and teased Laurella. Neither looked up or answered. 

The sun still stood high over Procida when they reached the 
quay. Laurella shook her dress, now completely dried, and 
sprang out. The old spinning woman who had seen them go 
away in the morning still stood on the roof. "What's the 
matter with your hand, Tonino?" she called to him. "Dear 
Jesus! the boat is swimming in blood." 

"It's nothing, Granny," said the boy. "I tore it on a nail 
that was sticking out too far. It'll be all right by to-morrow. 
That confounded blood on my hand makes it look worse than 
it is." 

"I'll come down and put herbs on it, my lad. Wait a minute, 
I'll be there directly." 

"Don't bother, Granny. It's taken care of already, and 
to-morrow it will be gone and forgotten. I've got a healthy 
skin that grows over every wound." 

"Addio," said Laurella and turned into the path that led 
up hill. 

"Goodnight," cried the boy without looking up. Then he 
took the oars and baskets from the boat and climbed up the 
little stone steps to his hut. 

Alone in his two rooms, he paced back and forth. Through 
the little open windows which could be closed only by means of 
wooden blinds, the wind was blowing. It was more refreshing 
here than on the ocean and the loneliness did him good. For 
a long time he stood in front of the little picture of the Virgin 
and devoutly contemplated the halo of silvered paper which 
was pasted around her head. It never occurred to him to 



72 L'ARRABBIATA 

pray. What should he ask for — since he no longer 
hoped? 

The sun seemed to stand still to-day. He longed for darkness, 
for he was tired. The loss of blood had weakened him more 
than he would admit to himself. He felt sharp pains in his 
hand. He sat down on the couch and loosened the bandage. 
The pent-in blood shot out again and the hand seemed swollen 
near the wound. He washed it carefully and held it in the cool 
water for a time. When he looked at it again he could plainly 
see the marks of Lamella's teeth. 

"She was right," he said. "I was a beast and don't deserve 
better treatment. To-morrow I'll send the cloth back to 
Giuseppe. She won't have to see me again." Then he washed 
out the cloth carefully and spread it to dry in the sun. After 
he had bound up the wound as best he could with his left hand 
and his teeth, he threw himself down on the bed and closed his 
eyes. 

The bright moon and the pain in his hand woke him out of 
a light sleep. His hand pulsed with pain. He had just jumped 
up to cool it in water when he heard a noise at his door. "Who 
is there?" he called, and opened the door. Laurella stood before 
him. Without a greeting she stepped in. She threw off the 
covering she had wound about her head and breathed deeply. 

"You came to get your cloth," he said. "You could have 
spared yourself the trouble. I was going to ask Giuseppe 
to bring it to you in the morning." 

"I did not come for the cloth," she answered quickly. "I 
have been on the mountain to get you some herbs to stop 
the bleeding. Here — " and she lifted the cover of the 
basket. 

"Too much trouble," he said, but without bitterness. "Too 
much trouble. It's better now, much better. And if it were 
worse, I should deserve it. What do you want here at this 
time of night. What if somebody should meet you here? 



PAUL HEYSE 73 

They do not know what they are talking about, but you know 
how they gossip." 

"They don't worry me," she said fiercely. "I want to 
see the wound and put some herbs on it. You can't do that 
with your left hand." 

"I tell you it isn't necessary." 

"Let me see it and I'll believe you." 

Without another word she took the hand which could not 
protect itself and unbound the cloth. When she saw the 
swelling she started and cried, "Jesu — Maria!" 

"It's a bit swollen," he said. "That will go away in a day 
and a night." 

She shook her head. "You won't be able to go on the sea 
for a week." 

"I believe I'll be out day after to-morrow. But what's the 
difference?" 

In the meantime she had fetched the basin and washed the 
wound again while he submitted like a child. She laid the 
healing leaves of the herb upon it, and they relieved the burn- 
ing at once. Then she bound up the hand with a piece of linen 
she had brought. 

When it was done he said, "Thank you. And listen — if 
you want to do me another favor, forgive me for letting such 
foolishness come into my head to-day. Forget everything I 
have said and done. I don't know myself how it happened. 
You never gave me occasion for it. You certainly didn't. 
You shall never hear anything from me again that will offend 
you." 

"But I should ask your pardon," she interrupted. "I should 
have acted differently and better, and not exasperated you by 
my sullenness. And now the wound." 

"It was self-defense and high time that I got control of my- 
self. And, as I said, it's nothing. Don't talk of forgiving. 
You did me good and I thank you for it. So now go back to 



74 L'ARRABBIATA 

your bed. And here, here is your cloth. You can take it 
along." 

He handed it to her but she stood still and seemed to be 
struggling with herself. Finally she said: "You lost your 
coat for my sake, and I know that it held the money from your 
oranges. That just occurred to me on the way over. I cannot 
give it back to you for we have nothing, and if we did have, 
it would belong to mother. But here is a silver cross that the 
painter put on the table the last time he came to see us. I 
haven't looked at it since then and I do not want to keep it 
in the box any longer. If you sell it — my mother said it was 
probably worth a couple of piasters — your loss would be made 
up. What would still be lacking, I could get with my spinning 
at night, when mother is sleeping." 

"I will take nothing," he said shortly, and he pushed back 
the bright cross that she had taken from her pocket. 

"You must accept it," she said. "Who knows how long you 
will be unable to earn anything with that hand of yours. Here 
it is and I never want to see it again with my eyes." 

"Throw it in the ocean, then." 

"It isn't a gift I'm giving you. It's no more than your right 
that's due you." 

"Right? I have no right to anything from you. If I should 
ever meet you again, do me the honor of not looking at me, so 
that I shall not think you are trying to remind me of what I 
owe you. And now, goodnight, and let it be the last." 

He put the cloth in the basket and the cross on the top and 
closed the cover. When he looked up, her face frightened 
him. Great heavy tears rolled down her cheeks. She did 
not brush them away. 

"Maria Santissima!" he cried. "Are you sick? You're 
trembling from head to foot." 

"It's nothing; I'll go home," and she staggered toward the 
door. Then her sobs overcame her and she leaned her head 



PAUL HEYSE 75 

against the door-post and wept loudly and passionately. And 
before he could help her, she turned suddenly and threw her 
arms round his neck. 

"I can't stand it," she cried, and held him to her as a dying 
man clings to life. "I can't stand it — to have you say nice 
things to me and send me away with all the guilt on my con- 
science. Beat me, kick me, curse me, or, if it is true that you 
love, now, after all the wrong I've done you, here, take me 
and keep me, and do what you want with me. Don't send 
me away from you like this." 

More and more passionate sobs interrupted her. 

For awhile he held her in his arms, silently. At last he 
cried, "Do I still love you? . . . Dear Mother of God, do 
you think that all my heart's blood poured out of that little 
wound! Don't you feel it pounding in my breast as though it 
wanted to come out to you? But if you say this only to tempt 
me, or because you sympathize with me, go, and I'll forget 
that too. You shall not think you owe it to me because you 
know I've suffered for you." 

"No," she said firmly. She raised her wet eyes from his 
shoulder and looked passionately into his face. "I do love 
you; and if I could only tell you how long I have feared it and 
fought against it ! . . . But now I'll be different, because 
I can't stand it not to look at you when you pass in the street. 
And now I'll kiss you too, so that if you should ever doubt again 
you can say to yourself, 'Laurella has kissed me, and she kisses 
no man except him whom she wants for her husband!' " 

She kissed him three times, and then she freed herself from 
his arms and said, "Good night, beloved! Go to sleep now and 
heal your hand. Don't come with me, for I'm afraid of nobody 
— but you." 

With this she slipped through the door and disappeared in 
the shadow of the wall. For a long time he looked through 
the window out on the sea where all the stars seemed to dance. 



76 L'ARRABBIATA 

When the little Padre Curato came from the confessional 
where Laurella had been kneeling for a long time, he smiled to 
himself. "Who would have believed," he thought, "that God 
would so soon take pity on this wayward heart. And I re- 
proached myself for not having threatened any more forcibly 
the demon pride. Our eyes are too short-sighted to see the 
ways of Heaven. God bless them and may I live to have 
Laurella's oldest son row me across the ocean in his father's 
place! Well, well, well, — l'Arrabbiata!" 



V. THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 
Edgar Allan Poe 

£The essence of the plot in this story and the following is identical. In Poe's 
tale the incident is presented barely. Motivation and depiction of character 
are slighted in order to make the mere horror of the central incident stand 
forth nakedly. All of the masterly devices which were at the author's command 
have been used to heighten this melodramatic effect. The incident in Balzac's 
story is almost meticulously explained in terms of motive, antecedent action, and 
character, which are carefully placed in setting and attendant circumstance. The 
difference in artistic effect thus made will be found to be striking. In fact, despite 
the similarity in mere plot, La Grande BreUche arouses an entirely new narrative 
interest.] 

The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best 
could, but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. 
You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, 
however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At length I would 
be avenged; this was a point definitely settled — but the very 
definiteness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of 
risk. I must not only punish, but punish with impunity. 
A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. 
It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself 
felt as such to him who has done the wrong. 

It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I 
given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as 
was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that 
my smile now was at the thought of his immolation. 

He had a weak point — this Fortunato — although in other 
regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He 
prided himself on his connoisseur ship in wine. Few Italians 
have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthu- 
siasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity — to practice 
imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In 



78 THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 

painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was 
a quack, — but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In 
this respect I did not differ from him materially: I was skillful 
in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever 
I could. 

It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness 
of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He 
accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking 
much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting party- 
striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical 
cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I 
should never have done wringing his hand. 

I said to him: "My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. 
How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have 
received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my 
doubts." 

"How?" said he, "Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible! 
And in the middle of the carnival!" 

"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to 
pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the 
matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing 
a bargain." 

"Amontillado!" 

"I have my doubts." 

"Amontillado!" 

"And I must satisfy them." 

"Amontillado!" 

"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one 
has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me — — " 

"Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry." 

"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match 
for your own." 

"Come, let us go." 

"Whither?" 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 79 

"To your vaults." 

"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. 
I perceive you have an engagement. Luchesi " 

"I have no engagement — come." 

"My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe 
cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are 
insufferably damp. They are incrusted with nitre." 

"Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. 
Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for 
Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado." 

Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. 
Putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a roquelaure 
closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my 
palazzo. 

There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to 
make merry in honor of the time. I had told them that I should 
not return until the morning, and had given them explicit 
orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, 
I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and 
all, as soon as my back was turned. 

I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to 
Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the 
archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and 
winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. 
We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together 
on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors. 

The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his 
cap jingled as he strode. 

"The pipe," said he. 

"It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white webwork 
which gleams from these cavern walls." 

He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two 
filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication. 

"Nitre?" he asked at length. 



80 THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 

"Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?''' 

"Ugh! ugh! ugh! — ugh! ugh! ugh! — ugh! ugh! ugh! 
— ugh! ugh! ugh! — ugh! ugh! ugh!" 

My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes. 

"It is nothing," he said at last. 

"Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health 
is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you 
are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For 
me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I 
cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi " 

"Enough," he said; "the cough is a mere nothing; it will 
not kill me. I shall not die of a cough." 

"True — true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention 
of alarming you unnecessarily — but you should use all proper 
caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the 
damps." 

Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a 
long row of its fellows that lay upon the mold. 

"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine. 

He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to 
me familiarly, while his bells jingled. 

"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us." 

"And I to your long life." 

He again took my arm, and we proceeded. 

"These vaults," he said, "are extensive." 

"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous 
family." 

"I forget your arms." 

"A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes 
a serpent rampant, whose fangs are embedded in the heel." 

"And the motto?" 

" Nemo me impune lacessit." 

"Good!" he said. 

The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 81 

fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through 
walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, 
into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, 
and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above 
the elbow. 

"The nitre!" I said; "see, it increases. It hangs like moss 
upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of 
moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere 
it is too late. Your cough " 

"It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another 
draught of the Medoc." 

I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied 
it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed, 
and threw the bottle upward with a gesticulation I did not 
understand. 

I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement — 
a grotesque one. 

"You do not comprehend?" he said. 

"Not I," I replied. 

"Then you are out of the brotherhood." 

"How?" 

"You are not of the masons." 

"Yes, yes," I said, "yes, yes." 

"You? Impossible! A mason?" 

"A mason," I replied. 

"A sign," he said. 

"It is this," I answered, producing a trowel from beneath 
the folds of my roquelaure. 

"You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us 
proceed to the Amontillado." 

"Be it so," I said replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and 
again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We 
continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed 
through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and, 



82 THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 

descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness 
of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame. 

At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another 
less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, 
piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great cata- 
combs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still 
ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the bones had 
been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, 
forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus 
exposed by the displacing of the bones we perceived a still 
interior recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height 
six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial 
use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two 
of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was 
backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite. 

It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, en- 
deavored to pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination 
the feeble light did not enable us to see. 

"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for 
Luchesi " 

"He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped 
unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. 
In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and 
finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly be- 
wildered. A moment more, and I had fettered him to the 
granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from 
each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these 
depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing 
the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds 
to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. With- 
drawing the key, I stepped back from the recess. 

"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help 
feeling the nitre. Indeed it is very damp. Once more let me 
implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave 



, EDGAR ALLAN POE S3 

you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my 
power." 

"The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered 
from his astonishment. 

"True," I replied; "the Amontillado." 

As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of 
bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I 
soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With 
these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigor- 
ously to wall up the entrance of the niche. 

I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I dis- 
covered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great 
measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a 
low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the 
cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate 
silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; 
and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The 
noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might 
hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labors and 
sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, 
I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the 
fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly 
upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the 
flambeaux over the masonwork, threw a few feeble rays upon 
the figure within. 

A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly 
from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me vio- 
lently back. For a brief moment I hesitated — I trembled. 
Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the 
recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed 
my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satis- 
fied. I reapproached the wall. I replied to the yells of him who 
clamored. I reechoed — I aided — I surpassed them in volume 
and in strength. I did this and the clamorer grew still. 



84 THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 

It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close 
I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I 
had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there 
remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I 
struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined 
position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh 
that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a 
sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the 
noble Fortunato. The voice said: — 

"Ha! ha! ha! — he! he! he! — a very good jest indeed — 
an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it 
at the palazzo — he! he! he! — over our wine — he! he! he!" 

"The Amontillado!" I said. 

"He! he! he! — he! he! he — yes, the Amontillado. But 
is it not getting late? Will they not be awaiting us at the 
palazzo — the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone." 

"Yes," I said, "let us be gone." 

"'For the love of God, Montresor!" 

"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!" 

But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew 
impatient. I called aloud, — 

"Fortunato!" 

No answer. I called again, — 

"Fortunato!" 

No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining 
aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return 
only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick — on account 
of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end 
of my labor. I forced the last stone into its position; I plas- 
tered it up. Against the new masonry I reelected the old ram- 
part of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has dis- 
turbed them. In pace requiescat. 



VI. LA GRANDE BRETECHE 1 

Honore de Balzac 

About a hundred yards from Vendome, on the banks of the 
Loir, is an old brown house, covered with very steep roofs, and 
so completely isolated that there is not so much as an evil- 
smelling tannery, nor a shabby inn such as you see at the en- 
trance of all little towns, in its neighborhood. In front of this 
dwelling is a garden overlooking the river, where the box edg- 
ings, once carefully clipped, which bordered the paths, now cross 
them and straggle as they fancy. . . . The paths, formerly 
gravelled, are full of purslain; so that, strictly speaking, there 
are no paths at all. ... An arbor is still standing, or rather the 
remains of one, and beneath it is a table which time has not yet 
completely demolished. From the aspect of this garden, 
now no more, the negative joys of the peaceful life of the prov- 
inces can be inferred, just as we infer the life of some worthy 
from the epitaph on his tomb. To complete the sad and tender 
ideas which take possession of the soul, a sundial on the wall 
bears this inscription, Christian yet bourgeois, Ultimam Cogita. 
The roofs are dilapidated, the blinds always closed, the balconies 
are filled with swallows' nests, the gates are locked. Tall 
herbs and grasses trace in green lines the chinks and crevices 
of the stone portico; the locks are rusty. Sun and moon, 
summer and winter and snow have rotted the wood, warped 
the planks, and worn away the paint. The gloomy silence is 
unbroken save by the birds, the cats, the martens, the rats, 
the mice, all free to scamper or fly, and to fight, and to eat them- 
selves up. 

1 Reprinted from Fame and Sorrow and Other Stories (translated by Katharine 
Prescott Wormeley) with the kind permission of Little, Brown and Company. 



86 LA GRANDE BRET&CHE 

An invisible hand has written the word Mystery everywhere. 
. . . This empty and deserted house is a profound enigma, 
whose solution is known to none. It was formerly a small fief, 
and is called La Grande Breteche. During my stay at Ven- 
dome, where Desplein had sent me in charge of a rich patient, 
the sight of this strange dwelling was one of my keenest pleas- 
ures. It was better than a ruin. A ruin possesses memories 
of positive authenticity; but this habitation, still standing, 
though slowly demolished by an avenging hand, contained some 
secret, some mysterious thought, — it betrayed at least a strange 
caprice. More than once of an evening I jumped the hedge, 
now a tangle, which guarded the enclosure. I braved the 
scratches ; I walked that garden without a master, that property 
which was neither public nor private; for hours I stayed there 
contemplating its decay. Not even to obtain the history 
which underlay (and to which no doubt was due) this strange 
spectacle would I have asked a single question of any gossiping 
countryman. Standing there I invented enchanting tales; 
I gave myself up to debauches of melancholy which fascinated 
me. Had I known the reason, perhaps a common one, for this 
strange desertion, I should have lost the unwritten poems with 
which I intoxicated myself. To me this sanctuary evoked the 
most varied images of human life darkened by sorrows; some- 
times it was a cloister without the nuns; sometimes a grave- 
yard and its peace, without the dead who talk to you in epitaphs; 
to-day the house of the leper, to-morrow that of the Atrides; 
but above all was it the provinces with their composed ideas, 
their hour-glass life. 

Often I wept there, but I never smiled. More than once 
an involuntary terror seized me, as I heard above my head the 
muffled whirr of a ringdove's wings hurrying past. The soil is 
damp; care must be taken against the lizards, the vipers, the 
frogs, which wander about with the wild liberty of nature; 
above all, it is well not to fear cold, for there are moments 



HONORfi DE BALZAC 87 

when you feel an icy mantle laid upon your shoulders like the 
hand of the Commander on the shoulder of Don Juan. One 
evening I shuddered; the wind had caught and turned a rusty 
vane. Its creak was like a moan issuing from the house, at 
a moment, too, when I was ending a gloomy drama in which 
I explained to myself the monumental dolor of that scene. 

That night I returned to my inn, a prey to gloomy thoughts. 
After I had supped the landlady entered my room with a myster- 
ious air, and said to me, "Monsieur, Monsieur Regnault is 
here." 

"Who is Monsieur Regnault?" 

"Is it possible that Monsieur doesn't know Monsieur Reg- 
nault? Ah, how funny!" she said, leaving the room. 

Suddenly I beheld a long, slim man, clothed in black, holding 
his hat in his hand, who presented himself, much like a ram about 
to leap on a rival, and showed me a retreating forehead, a small, 
pointed head and a livid face, in color somewhat like a glass of 
dirty water. You would have taken him for the usher of a 
minister. This unknown personage wore an old coat much 
worn in the folds, but he had a diamond in the frill of his shirt, 
and gold earrings in his ears. 

"Monsieur, to whom have I the honor of speaking?" I said. 

He took a chair, sat down before my fire, laid his hat on my 
table and replied, rubbing his hands: "Ah! it is very cold. 
Monsieur, I am Monsieur Regnault." 

I bowed, saying to myself: u Il bondo cani! seek!" 

"I am," he said, "the notary of Vendome." 

"Delighted, monsieur," I replied, "but I am not in the way 
of making my will, — for reasons, alas, too well-known to me." 

"One moment!" he resumed, raising his hand as if to impose 
silence. "Permit me, monsieur, permit me! I have learned that 
you sometimes enter the garden of La Grande Breteche and 
walk there — " 

"Yes, monsieur." 



88 LA GRANDE BRETfiCHE 

"One moment!" he said, repeating his gesture. "That 
action constitutes a misdemeanor. Monsieur, I come in the 
name and as testamentary executor of the late Comtesse de 
Merret to beg you to discontinue your visits. One moment! 
I am not a Turk; I do not wish to impute a crime to you. 
Besides, it is quite excusable that you, a stranger, should be 
ignorant of the circumstances which compel me to let the 
handsomest house in Vendome go to ruin. Nevertheless, 
monsieur, as you seem to be a person of education, you no 
doubt know that the law forbids trespassers on enclosed property. 
A hedge is the same as a wall. But the state in which that house 
is left may well excuse your curiosity. I should be only too 
glad to leave you free to go and come as you liked there, but 
charged as I am to execute the wishes of the testatrix, I have 
the honor, monsieur, to request that you do not again enter that 
garden. I myself, monsieur, have not, since the reading of the 
will, set foot in that house, which, as I have already had the 
honor to tell you, I hold under the will of Madame de Merret. 
We have only taken account of the number of the doors and 
windows so as to assess the taxes which I pay annually from the 
funds left by the late countess for that purpose. Ah, monsieur, 
that will made a great deal of noise in Vendome!" 

There the worthy man paused to blow his nose. I respected 
his loquacity, understanding perfectly that the testamentary 
bequest of Madame de Merret had been the most important 
event of his life, the head and front of his reputation, his glory, 
his Restoration. So then, I must bid adieu to my beautiful 
reveries, my romances! I was not so rebellious as to deprive 
myself of getting the truth, as it were officially, out of the 
man of law, so I said, — 

"Monsieur, if it is not indiscreet, may I ask the reason of 
this singularity?" 

At these words a look which expressed the pleasure of a man 
who rides a hobby passed over Monsieur Regnault's face. He 



HONORE DE BALZAC 89 

pulled up his shirt-collar with a certain conceit, took out his 
snuff-box, opened it, offered it to me and, on my refusal, took 
a strong pinch himself. He was happy. A man who hasn't 
a hobby doesn't know how much can be got out of life. A 
hobby is the exact medium between a passion and a mono- 
mania. At that moment I understood Sterne's fine expression 
to its fullest extent, and I formed a complete idea of the joy 
with which my Uncle Toby — Trim assisting — bestrode his 
war-horse. 

"Monsieur," said Monsieur Regnault, "I was formerly head- 
clerk to Maitre Roguin in Paris. An excellent lawyer's office 
of which you have doubtless heard? No? And yet a most 
unfortunate failure made it, I may say, celebrated. Not having 
the means to buy a practice in Paris at the price to which they 
rose in 1816, 1 came here to Vendome, where I have relations, — 
among them a rich aunt, who gave me her daughter in marriage." 
Here he made a slight pause, and then resumed: 
"Three months after my appointment was ratified by Mon- 
seigneur the Keeper of the Seals, I was sent for one evening just 
as I was going to bed (I was not then married) by Madame la 
Comtesse de Merret, then living in her chateau at Merret. Her 
lady's-maid, an excellent girl who is now serving in this inn, 
was at the door with the countess's carriage. Ah! one moment! 
I ought to tell you, monsieur, that Monsieur le Comte de Merret 
had gone to die in Paris about two months before I came here. 
He died a miserable death from excesses of all kinds, to which 
he gave himself up. You understand? Well, the day of his 
departure Madame la Comtesse left La Grande Breteche, 
and dismantled it. They do say that she even burned the 
furniture, and the carpets, and all appurtenances whatsoever 
and wheresoever contained on the premises leased to the said — 
Ah! beg pardon; what am I saying? I thought I was dictating 
a lease. Well, monsieur, she burned everything, they say, in 
the meadow at Merret. Were you ever at Merret, monsieur?" 



go LA GRANDE BRETECHE 

Not waiting for me to speak, he answered for me: "No. 
Ah! it is a fine spot! For three months, or thereabouts," he 
continued, nodding his head, "Monsieur le Comte and Madame 
la Comtesse had been living at La Grande Breteche in a very- 
singular way. They admitted no one to the house; madame 
lived on the ground-floor, and monsieur on the first floor. After 
Madame la Comtesse was left alone she never went to church. 
Later, in her own chateau she refused to see the friends who came 
to visit her. She changed greatly after she left La Grande 
Breteche and came to Merret. That dear woman (I say dear, 
though I never saw her but once, because she gave me this 
diamond), — that good lady was very ill; no doubt she had 
given up all hope of recovery, for she died without calling in 
a doctor; in fact, some of our ladies thought she was not quite 
right in her mind. Consequently, monsieur, my curiosity 
was greatly excited when I learned that Madame de Merret 
needed my services; and I was not the only one deeply interested 
for that very night, though it was late, the whole town knew I 
had gone to Merret." 

The good man paused a moment to arrange his facts, and then 
continued: "The lady's maid answered rather vaguely the 
questions which I put to her as we drove along; she did, how- 
ever, tell me that her mistress received the last sacraments 
that day from the curate of Merret, and that she was not likely 
to live through the night. I reached the chateau about eleven 
o'clock. I went up the grand staircase. After passing through 
a number of dark and lofty rooms, horribly cold and damp, 
I entered the state bedroom where Madame la Comtesse was 
lying. In consequence of the many stories that were told about 
this lady (really, monsieur, I should never end if I related all 
of them) I expected to find her a fascinating coquette. Would 
you believe it, I could scarcely see her at all in the huge bed in 
which she lay. It is true that the only light in that vast room, 
with friezes of the old style powdered with dust enough to make 



HONORE DE BALZAC 91 

you sneeze on merely looking at them, was one Argand lamp. 
Ah! but you say you have never been at Merret. Well, mon- 
sieur, the bed was one of those old-time beds with a high tester 
covered with flowered chintz. A little night-table stood by the 
bed, and on it I noticed a copy of the Imitation of Christ. 

"Allow me a parenthesis," he said, interrupting himself. 
"I bought that book subsequently, also the lamp* and pre- 
sented them to my wife. In the room was a large sofa for the 
woman who was taking care of Madame de Merret, and two 
chairs. That was all. No fire. The whole would not have 
made ten lines of an inventory. Ah! my dear monsieur, could 
you have seen her as I saw her then, in that vast room hung 
with brown tapestry, you would have imagined you were in 
the pages of a novel. It was glacial, — better than that, 
funereal," added the worthy man, raising his arm theatrically 
and making a pause. Presently he resumed: 

"By dint of peering round and coming close to the bed I 
at length saw Madame de Merret, thanks to the lamps which 
happened to shine on the pillows. Her face was as yellow as 
wax, and looked like two hands joined together. Madame 
la Comtesse wore a lace cap, which, however, allowed me to see 
her fine hair, white as snow. She was sitting up in the bed, 
but apparently did so with difficulty. Her large black eyes, 
sunken no doubt with fever, and almost lifeless, hardly moved 
beneath the bones where the eyebrows usually grow. Her 
forehead was damp. Her neshless hands were like bones cov- 
ered with thin skin; the veins and muscles could all be seen. 
She must once have been very handsome, but now I was seized 
with — I couldn't tell you what feeling, as I looked at her. 
Those who buried her said afterwards that no living creature 
had ever been as wasted as she without dying. Well, it was 
awful to see. Some mortal disease had eaten up that woman 
till there was nothing left of her but a phantom. Her lips, 
of a pale violet, seemed not to move when she spoke. Though 



92 LA GRANDE BRETECHE 

my profession had familiarized me with such scenes, in bringing 
me often to the bedside of the dying, to receive their last wishes, 
I must say that the tears and the anguish of families and friends 
which I have witnessed were as nothing compared to this 
solitary woman in that vast building. I did not hear the slight- 
est noise, I did not see the movement which the breathing of 
the dying woman would naturally give to the sheet that covered 
her; I myself remained motionless, looking at her in a sort of 
stupor. Indeed, I fancy I am there still. At last her large eyes 
moved; she tried to lift her right hand, which fell back upon the 
bed; then these words issued from her lips like a breath, for her 
voice was no longer a voice : 

" ' I have awaited you with impatience.' 

"Her cheeks colored. The effort to speak was great. The 
old woman who was watching her here rose and whispered in 
my ear: 'Don't speak; Madame la Comtesse is past hearing 
the slightest sound; you would only agitate her.' I sat 
down. A few moments later Madame de Merret collected all 
her remaining strength to move her right arm and put it, not 
without great difficulty, under her bolster. She paused an in- 
stant; then she made a last effort and withdrew her hand which 
now held a sealed paper. Great drops of sweat rolled from 
her forehead. 

"'I give you my will,' she said. 'Oh, my God! Oh!' 

"That was all. She seized a crucifix which lay on her bed, 
pressed it to her lips and died. The expression of her fixed 
eyes still makes me shudder when I think of it. I brought away 
the will. When it was opened I found that Madame de Merret 
had appointed me her executor. She bequeathed her whole 
property to the hospital of Vendome, save and excepting certain 
bequests. The following disposition was made of La Grande 
Breteche. I was directed to leave it in the state in which it 
was at the time of her death for a period of fifty years from the 
date of her decease; I was to forbid all access to it, by any and 



HONORE DE BALZAC 93 

every one, no matter who; to make no repairs, and to put by 
from her estate a yearly sum to pay watchers, if they were 
necessary, to insure the faithful execution of these intentions. 
At the expiration of that time the estate was, if the testatrix's 
will had been carried out in all particulars, to belong to my 
heirs (because, as monsieur is doubtless well aware, notaries 
are forbidden by law to receive legacies); if otherwise, then 
La Grande Breteche was to go to whoever might establish a 
right to it, but on condition of fulfilling certain orders con- 
tained in a codicil annexed to the will and not to be opened until 
the expiration of the fifty years. The will has never been 
attacked, consequently — " 

Here the oblong notary, without finishing his sentence, 
looked at me triumphantly. I made him perfectly happy 
with a few compliments. 

"Monsieur," I said, in conclusion, "you have so deeply 
impressed that scene upon me that I seem to see the dying wo- 
man, whiter than the sheets; those glittering eyes horrify me; 
I shall dream of her all night. But you must have formed some 
conjectures as to the motive of that extraordinary will." 

"Monsieur," he replied, with comical reserve, "I never 
permit myself to judge of the motives of those who honor me 
with the gift of a diamond." 

However, I managed to unloose the tongue of the scrupulous 
notary so far that he told me, not without long digressions, 
certain opinions on the matter emanating from the wise-heads 
of both sexes whose judgments made the social law of Vendome. 
But these opinions and observations were so contradictory, 
diffuse, that I well-nigh went to sleep in spite of the interest 
I felt in this authentic story. The heavy manner and mono- 
tonous accent of the notary, who was no doubt in the habit of 
listening to himself and making his clients and compatriots 
listen to him, triumphed over my curiosity. Happily, he did 
at last go away. 



94 LA GRANDE BRETECHE 

"Ha, ha! monsieur," he said to me at the head of the stairs, 
"many persons would like to live their forty-five years longer, 
but, one moment!" — here he laid the forefinger of his right hand 
on his nose as if he meant to say, Now pay attention to this ! — 
"in order to do that, to do that, they ought to skip the sixties." 

I shut my door, the notary's jest, which he thought very witty, 
having drawn me from my apathy; then I sat down in my 
armchair and put both feet on the andirons. I was plunged in 
a romance a la Radcliffe, based on the notarial disclosures of 
Monsieur Regnault, when my door, softly opened by the hand 
of a woman, turned noiselessly on its hinges. 

I saw my landlady, a jovial, stout woman, with a fine, good- 
humored face, who had missed her true surroundings; she was 
from Flanders, and might have stepped out of a picture by 
Teniers. 

"Well, monsieur," she said, "Monsieur Regnault has no 
doubt recited to you his famous tale of La Grande Breteche?" 

"Yes, Madame Lepas." 

"What did he tell you?" 

I repeated in a few words the dark and chilling story of 
Madame de Merret as imparted to me by the notary. At each 
sentence my landlady ran out her chin and looked at me with the 
perspicacity of an innkeeper, which combines the instinct of 
a policeman, the astuteness of a spy, and the cunning of a shop- 
keeper. 

"My dear Madame Lepas," I added, in conclusion, "you 
evidently know more than that. If not, why did you come 
up here to me?" 

"On the word, now, of an honest woman, just as true as my 
name is Lepas — " 

"Don't swear, for your eyes are full of the secret. You knew 
Monsieur de Merret. What sort of man was he?" 

"Goodness! Monsieur de Merret? well, you see, he was a 
handsome man, so tall you never could see the top of him, — 



HONORfi DE BALZAC 95 

a very worthy gentleman from Picardy, who had, as you may 
say, a temper of his own; and he knew it. He paid everyone 
in cash so as to have no quarrels. But, I tell you, he could be 
quick. Our ladies thought him very pleasant." 

"Because of his temper?" I asked. 

"Perhaps," she replied. "You know, monsieur, a man must 
have something to the fore, as they say, to marry a lady like 
Madame de Merret, who, without disparaging others, was 
the handsomest and the richest woman in Vendome. She had 
an income of nearly twenty thousand francs. All the town was 
at the wedding. The bride was so dainty and captivating, a 
real little jewel of a woman. Ah! they were a tine couple in 
those days!" 

"Was their home a happy one?" 

"Hum, hum! yes and no, so far as anyone can say; for you 
know well enough that the like of us don't live hand and glove 
with the like of them. Madame de Merret was a good woman 
and very charming, who no doubt had to bear a good deal 
from her husband's temper; we all liked her though she was 
rather haughty. Bah! that was her bringing up, and she was 
born so. When people are noble — don't you see?" 

"Yes, but there must have been some terrible catastrophe, 
for Monsieur and Madame de Merret to separate violently." 

"I never said there was a catastrophe, monsieur; I know 
nothing about it." 

"Very good; now I am certain that you know all." 

"Well, monsieur, I'll tell you all I do know. When I saw 
Monsieur Regnault coming after you I knew he would tell you 
about Madame de Merret and La Grande Breteche; and that 
gave me the idea of consulting monsieur, who seems to be a 
gentleman of good sense, incapable of betraying a poor woman 
like me, who has never done harm to anyone, but who is, some- 
how, troubled in her conscience. I have never dared to say a 
word to the people about here, for they are all gossips, with 



96 LA GRANDE BRETECHE 

tongues like steel blades. And there's never been a traveller 
who has stayed as long as you have, monsieur, to whom I could 
tell all about the fifteen thousand francs — " 

"My dear Madame Lepas," I replied, trying to stop the 
flow of words, "if your confidence is of a nature to compromise 
me, I wouldn't hear it for worlds." 

"Oh, don't be afraid," she said, interrupting me. "You'll 
see — " 

This haste to tell made me quite certain I was not the first 
to whom my good landlady had communicated the secret of 
which I was to be the sole repository, so I listened. 

"Monsieur," she said, "when the Emperor sent the Spanish 
and other prisoners of war to Vendome I lodged one of them 
(at the cost of the government), — a young Spaniard on parole. 
But in spite of his parole he had to report every day to the sub- 
prefect. He was a grandee of Spain, with a name that ended 
in os and in dia, like all Spaniards — Bagos de Feredia. I 
wrote his name on the register, and you can see it if you like. 
Oh, he was a handsome young fellow for a Spaniard, who, they 
tell me, are all ugly. He wasn't more than five feet two or three 
inches, but he was well made. He had pretty little hands 
which he took care of — ah, you should just have seen him! 
He had as many brushes for those hands as a woman has for 
her head. He had fine black hair, a fiery eye, a rather copper- 
colored skin, but it was pleasant to look at all the same. He 
wore the finest linen I ever saw on anyone, and I have lodged 
princesses, and, among others, General Bertrand, the Due and 
Duchesse d'Abrantes, Monsieur Decazes and the King of Spain. 
He didn't eat much; but he had such polite manners and was 
always so amiable that I couldn't find fault with him. Oh! 
I did really love him, though he never said four words a day to 
me; if anyone spoke to him, he never answered, — that's 
an oddity those grandees have, a sort of mania, so I'm told. 
He read his breviary like a priest, and he went to mass and to 



HONORE DE BALZAC 97 

all the services regularly. Where do you think he sat? close to 
the chapel of Madame de Merret. But as he took that place 
the first time he went to church nobody attached any importance 
to the fact, though it was remembered later. Besides, he never 
took his eyes off his prayer-book, poor young man!" 

My jovial landlady paused a moment, overcome with her 
recollections; then she continued her tale: 

"From that time on, monsieur, he used to walk up the moun- 
tain every evening to the ruins of the castle. It was his only 
amusement, poor man ! and I dare say it recalled his own coun- 
try; they say Spain is all mountains. From the first he was 
always late at night in coming in. I used to be uneasy at never 
seeing him before the stroke of midnight; but we got accustomed 
to his ways and gave him a key to the door, so that we didn't 
have to sit up. It so happened that one of our grooms told us 
that one evening when he went to bathe his horses he thought 
he saw the grandee in the distance, swimming in the river like 
a fish. When he came in I told him he had better take care 
not to get entangled in the sedges; he seemed annoyed that any- 
one had seen him in the water. Well, monsieur, one day, or 
rather, one morning, we did not find him in his room; he had 
not come in. He never returned. I looked about and into 
everything, and at last I found a writing in a table drawer 
where he had put away fifty of those Spanish gold coins called 
'portugaise,' which bring a hundred francs apiece; there were 
also diamonds worth ten thousand francs sealed up in a little 
box. The paper said that in case he should not return some 
day, he bequeathed to us the money and the diamonds, with 
a request to found masses of thanksgiving to God for his escape 
and safety. In those days my husband was living, and he did 
everything he could to find the young man. But, it was the 
queerest thing! he found only the Spaniard's clothes under a 
big stone in a sort of shed on the banks of the river, on the castle 
side, just opposite to La Grande Breteche. My husband went 



98 LA GRANDE BRETECHE 

so early in the morning that no one saw him. He burned the 
clothes after we had read the letter, and gave out, as Comte 
Feredia requested, that he had fled. The sub-prefect sent the 
whole gendarmerie on his traces, but bless your heart! they 
never caught him. Lepas thought the Spaniard had drowned 
himself. But, monsieur, I never thought so. I think he was 
somehow mixed up in Madame de Merret's trouble; and I'll 
tell you why. Rosalie has told me that her mistress had a cruci- 
fix she valued so much that she was buried with it, and it was 
made of ebony and silver; now when Monsieur de Feredia first 
came to lodge with us he had just such a crucifix, but I soon 
missed it. Now, monsieur, what do you say? isn't it true 
that I need have no remorse about those fifteen thousand francs? 
are not they rightfully mine?" 

" Of course they are. But how is it you have never questioned 
Rosalie?" I said. 

"Oh, I have, monsieur; but I can get nothing out of her. 
That girl is a stone wall. She knows something, but there is 
no making her talk,." 

After a few more remarks, my landlady left me, a prey to a 
romantic curiosity, to vague and darkling thoughts, to a religious 
terror that was something like the awe which comes upon us 
when we enter by night a gloomy church and see in the distance 
beneath the arches a feeble light; a formless figure glides before 
us, the sweep of a robe — of priest or woman — is heard ; 
we shudder. La Grande Breteche, with its tall grasses, its 
shuttered windows, its rusty railings, its barred gates, its de- 
serted rooms, rose fantastically and suddenly before me. I 
tried to penetrate that mysterious dwelling and seek the knot 
of this most solemn history, this drama which had killed three 
persons. 

Rosalie became to my eyes the most interesting person in 
Vendome. Examining her, I discovered the traces of an ever- 
present inward thought. In spite of the health which bloomed 



HONORfi DE BALZAC 99 

upon her dimpled face, there was in her some element of re- 
morse, or of hope; her attitude bespoke a secret, like that of 
devotees who. pray with ardor, or that of a girl who has killed 
her child and forever after hears its cry. And yet her postures 
were naive, and even vulgar; her silly smile was surely not 
criminal; you would have judged her innocent if only by the 
large neckerchief of blue and red squares which covered her 
vigorous bust, clothed, confined, and set off by a gown of purple 
and white stripes. " No, " thought I; " I will not leave Vendome 
without knowing the history of La Grande Breteche. I'll 
even make love to Rosalie, if it is absolutely necessary." 

" Rosalie ! " I said to her one day. 

"What is it, monsieur?" 

"You are not married, are you?" 

She trembled slightly. 

"Oh! when the fancy takes me to be unhappy there'll be no 
lack of men," she said laughing. 

She recovered instantly from her emotion, whatever it was; 
for all women, from the great lady to the chambermaid of an 
inn, have a self-possession of their own. 

"You are fresh enough and taking enough to please a lover," 
I said, watching her. "But tell me, Rosalie, why did you 
take a place at an inn after you left Madame de Merret? Didn't 
she leave you an annuity?" 

"Oh, yes, she did. But, monsieur, my place is the best in 
all Vendome." 

This answer was evidently what judges and lawyers call 
"dilatory." Rosalie's position in this romantic history was 
like that of a square on a checkerboard; she was at the very 
centre, as it were, of its truth and its interest; she seemed to 
me to be tied into the knot of it. The last chapter of the tale 
was in her, and, from the moment that I realized this, Rosalie 
became to me an object of attraction. By dint of studying 
the girl I came to find in her, as we do in every woman whom 



ioo LA GRANDE BRETfiCHE 

we make a principal object of our attention, that she had a host 
of good qualities. She was clean, and careful of herself, and 
therefore handsome. Some two or three weeks after the 
notary's visit I said to her, suddenly: "Tell me all you know 
about Madame de Merret." 

"Oh, no!" she replied, in a tone of terror, "don't ask me that, 
monsieur." 

I persisted in urging her. Her pretty face darkened, her 
bright color faded, her eyes lost their innocent, liquid light. 

"Well!" she said, after a pause, "if you will have it so, I will 
tell you; but keep the secret." 

"I'll keep it with the faithfulness of a thief, which is the 
most loyal to be found anywhere." 

"If it is the same to you, monsieur, I'd rather you kept it 
with your own." 

Thereupon, she adjusted her neckerchief and posed herself 
to tell the tale; for it is very certain that an attitude of con- 
fidence and security is desirable in order to make a narration. 
The best tales are told at special hours, — like that in which we 
are now at table. No one ever told a story well, standing or 
fasting. 

If I were to reproduce faithfully poor Rosalie's diffuse elo- 
quence, a whole volume would scarce suffice. But as the event 
of which she now gave me a hazy knowledge falls into place 
between the facts revealed by the garrulity of the notary, and 
that of Madame Lepas, as precisely as the mean terms of an 
arithmetical proposition lie between its two extremes, all I 
have to do is to tell it to you in few words. I therefore give 
a summary of what I heard from Rosalie. 

The chamber which Madame de Merret occupied at La 
Grande Breteche was on the ground-floor. A small closet about 
four feet in depth was made in the wall, and served as a ward- 
robe. Three months before the evening when the facts I am 
about to relate to you happened, Madame de Merret had been 



HONORE DE BALZAC 101 

so seriously unwell that her husband left her alone in her room 
and slept himself in a chamber on the first floor. By one of 
those mere chances which it is impossible to foresee, he returned, 
on the evening in question, two hours later than usual from the 
club where he went habitually to read the papers and talk politics 
with the inhabitants of the town. His wife thought him at 
home and in bed and asleep. But the invasion of France had 
been the subject of a lively discussion; the game of billiards 
was a heated one; he had lost forty francs, an enormous sum 
for Vendome, where everybody hoards his money, and where 
manners and customs are restrained within modest limits worthy 
of all praise, — which may, perhaps, be the source of a certain 
true happiness which no Parisian cares anything at all about. 

For some time past Monsieur de Merret had been in the habit 
of asking Rosalie, when he came in, if his wife were in bed. 
Being told, invariably, that she was, he at once went to his own 
room with the contentment that comes of confidence and 
custom. This evening, on returning home, he took it into his 
head to go to Madame de Merret's room and tell her his ill- 
luck, perhaps to be consoled for it. During dinner he had 
noticed that his wife was coquettishly dressed; and as he 
came from the club the thought crossed his mind that she was 
no longer ill, that her convalescence had made her lovelier 
than ever, — a fact he perceived, as husbands are wont to 
perceive things, too late. 

Instead of calling Rosalie, who at that moment was in the 
kitchen watching a complicated game of " brisque," at which the 
cook and the coachman were playing, Monsieur de Merret went 
straight to his wife's room by the light of his lantern, which he 
had placed on the first step of the stairway. His step, which 
was easily recognized, resounded under the arches of the corridor. 
Just as he turned the handle of his wife's door he fancied he 
heard the door of the closet, which I mentioned to you, shut; 
but when he entered, Madame de Merret was alone, standing 



102 LA GRANDE BRETfiCHE 

before the fireplace. The husband thought to himself that 
Rosalie must be in the closet; and yet a suspicion, which sounded 
in his ears like the ringing of bells, made him distrustful. He 
looked at his wife, and fancied he saw something wild and 
troubled in her eyes. 

"You are late in coming home," she said. That voice, 
usually so pure and gracious, seemed to him slightly changed. 

Monsieur de Merret made no answer, for at that moment 
Rosalie entered the room. Her appearance was a thunderbolt 
to him. He walked up and down the room with his arms crossed, 
going from one window to another with a uniform movement. 

"Have you heard anything to trouble you?" asked his wife, 
timidly, while Rosalie was undressing her. He made no answer. 

"You can leave the room," said Madame de Merret to the 
maid. "I will arrange my hair myself." 

She guessed some misfortune at the mere sight of her husband's 
face, and wished to be alone with him. 

When Rosalie was gone, or supposed to be gone, for she went 
no further than the corridor, Monsieur de Merret came to his 
wife and stood before her. Then he said coldly: 

"Madame, there is some one in your closet." 

She looked at her husband with a calm air, and answered, 
"No, monsieur." 

That "no" agonized Monsieur de Merret, for he did not 
believe it. And yet his wife had never seemed purer or more 
saintly than she did at that moment. He rose and went towards 
the closet to open the door; Madame de Merret took him by 
the hand and stopped him; she looked at him with a sad air 
and said, in a voice that was strangely shaken: "If you find 
no one, remember that all is over between us." 

The infinite dignity of his wife's demeanor restored her 
husband's respect for her, and suddenly inspired him with 
one of those resolutions which need some wider field to become 
immortal. 



HONORS DE BALZAC 103 

"No, Josephine," he said, "I will not look there. In either 
case we should be separated forever. Listen to me: I know 
the purity of your soul, I know that you lead a saintly life; 
you would not commit a mortal sin to save yourself from death." 

At these words, Madame de Merret looked at her husband 
with a haggard eye. 

"Here is your crucifix," he went on. "Swear to me before 
God that there is no one in that closet and I will believe you; 
I will not open that door." 

Madame de Merret took the crucifix and said, "I swear it." 

"Louder!" said her husband; "repeat after me, — I swear 
before God that there is no person in that closet." 

She repeated the words composedly. 

"That is well," said Monsieur de Merret, coldly. After a 
moment's silence he added, examining the ebony crucifix with 
silver, "That is a beautiful thing; I did not know you possessed 
it; it is very artistically wrought." 

"I found it at Duvivier's," she replied; "he bought it of a 
Spanish monk when those prisoners-of-war passed through 
Vendome last year." 

"Ah!" said Monsieur de Merret, replacing the crucifix on the 
wall. He rang the bell. Rosalie was not long in answering 
it. Monsieur de Merret went quickly up to her, took her into 
the recess of a window on the garden side, and said to her in 
a low voice : 

"I am told that Gorenflot wants to marry you, and that 
poverty alone prevents it, for you have told him you will not 
be his wife until he is a master-mason. Is that so?" 

"Yes, monsieur." 

"Well, go and find him; tell him to come here at once and 
bring his trowel and other tools. Take care not to wake any 
one at his house but himself; he will soon have enough money 
to satisfy you. No talking to anyone when you leave this 
room, mind, or — " 



104 LA GRANDE BRETfiCHE 

He frowned. Rosalie left the room. He called her back; 
"Here, take my pass-key," he said. 

Monsieur de Merret, who had kept his wife in view while 
giving these orders, now sat down beside her before the fire 
and began to tell her of his game of billiards, and the political 
discussions at the club. When Rosalie returned she found 
Monsieur and Madame de Merret talking amicably. 

The master had lately had the ceilings of all the reception 
rooms on the lower floor restored. Plaster is very scarce at 
Vendome, and the carriage of it makes it expensive. Monsieur 
de Merret had therefore ordered an ample quantity for his own 
wants, knowing that he could readily find buyers for what was 
left. The circumstance inspired the idea that now possessed him. 

"Monsieur, Gorenflot has come," said Rosalie. 

"Bring him in," said her master. 

Madame de Merret turned slightly pale when she saw the 
mason. 

"Gorenflot," said her husband, "fetch some bricks from 
the coach-house, — enough to wall up that door; use the plaster 
that was left over, to cover the wall." 

Then he called Rosalie and the mason to the end of the room, 
and, speaking in a low voice, added, "Listen to me, Gorenflot; 
after you have done this work you will sleep in the house; 
and to-morrow morning I will give you a passport into a foreign 
country, and six thousand francs for the journey. Go through 
Paris where I will meet you. There, I will secure to you legally 
another six thousand francs, to be paid to you at the end of ten 
years if you still remain out of France. For this sum, I demand 
absolute silence on what you see and do this night. As for you, 
Rosalie, I give you a dowry of ten thousand francs, on con- 
dition that you marry Gorenflot, and keep silence, if not — " 

"Rosalie," said Madame de Merret, "come and brush my 
hair." 

The husband walked up and down the room, watching the 



HONORE DE BALZAC 105 

door, the mason, and his wife, but without allowing the least 
distrust or misgiving to appear in his manner. Gorenflot's 
work made some noise; under cover of it Madame de Merret 
said hastily to Rosalie, while her husband was at the farther 
end of the room. "A thousand francs annuity if you tell 
Gorenflot to leave a crevice at the bottom"; then aloud she 
added, composedly, "Go and help the mason." 

Monsieur and Madame de Merret remained silent during the 
whole time it took Gorenflot to wall up the door. The silence 
was intentional on the part of the husband to deprive his wife 
of all chance of saying words with a double meaning which might 
be heard within the closet; with Madame de Merret it was 
either prudence or pride. 

When the wall was more than half up, the mason's tool 
broke one of the panes of glass in the closet door; Monsieur de 
Merret's back was at that moment turned away. The action 
proved to Madame de Merret that Rosalie had spoken to the 
mason. In that one instant she saw the dark face of a man with 
black hair and fiery eyes. Before her husband turned the poor 
creature had time to make a sign with her head which meant 
"Hope." 

By four o'clock, just at dawn, for it was in the month of 
September, the work was done. Monsieur de Merret remained 
that night in his wife's room. The next morning, on rising, he 
said, carelessly: "Ah! I forgot, I must go to the mayor's office 
about that passport." 

He put on his hat, made three steps to the door, then checked 
himself, turned back, and took the crucifix. 

His wife trembled with joy. "He will go to Duvivier's," she 
thought. 

The moment her husband had left the house she rang for 
Rosalie. "The pick-axe!" she cried, "the pick-axe. I watched 
how Gorenflot did it; we shall have time to make a hole and 
close it again." 



106 LA GRANDE BRET&CHE 

In an instant Rosalie had brought a sort of cleaver, and her 
mistress, with a fury no words can describe, began to demolish 
the wall. She had knocked away a few bricks, and was drawing 
back to strike a still more vigorous blow with all her strength, 
when she saw her husband behind her. She fainted. 

"Put madame on her bed," said her husband, coldly. 

Foreseeing what would happen, he had laid this trap for his 
wife; he had written to the mayor, and sent for Duvivier. 
The jeweller arrived just as the room had been again put in 
order. 

"Duvivier," said Monsieur de Merret, "I think you bought 
some crucifixes of those Spaniards who were here last year?" 

"No, monsieur, I did not." 

"Very good; thank you," he said, with a tigerish glance at 
his wife. "Jean," he added to the footman, "serve my meals 
in Madame de Merret's bedroom; she is very ill, and I shall 
not leave her till she recovers." 

For twenty days that man remained beside his wife. During 
the first hours, when sounds were heard behind the walled door, 
and Josephine tried to implore mercy for the dying stranger, 
he answered, without allowing her to utter a word: 

"You swore upon the cross that no one was there." 

As the tale ended the women rose from table, and the spell 
under which Bianchon had held them was broken. Neverthe- 
less, several of them were conscious of a cold chill as they 
recalled the last words. 



PART II 



HOW TO SEE A STORY 
EVERYDAY LIFE 



PART II 

INTRODUCTION 
HOW TO SEE A STORY IN EVERYDAY LIFE 

In the preceding section we attempted to tell what a story is 
by defining its elements as they exist in life and as they are 
recomposed in the mind of a writer. In the present section 
we shall illustrate more fully what kind of observations count 
for the teller of tales, how he hits on a plot, and how he elabo- 
rates a situation out of the latent possibilities of incident and 
character. 

But it should be borne in mind that, whether the tales are 
written out or not, a great deal of daily pleasure may be had by 
cultivating in one's mind some of the methods of fiction, and in 
looking at life as if it were material for fiction. For skill in 
seeing a story implies only an aptitude for relating to each other 
the circumstances of life, for harmonizing them, for giving them 
emphatic shape and meaning. It implies an aptitude for 
keeping life fresh and interesting. Hence it is one of the ele- 
ments of that art of seeing fife steadily and seeing it whole 
which a famous critic has called the aim of culture. 

One of the first aids in his craft which the teller of tales dis- 
covers is the oft remarked unity of human affairs. He sees that 
since all our acts, all phases of our character, even our most 
trifling moods and whims, ultimately affect one another, there 
may always be for the student of the fiction of life a suggestion 
in any incident or in any trait of character. It is a link in the 
endless chain of circumstance and therefore part of a story. 
Given two or three links, he should be able to construct more 
of the chain imaginatively. He need not pry into private affairs, 



no HOW TO SEE A STORY IN EVERYDAY LIFE 

but from what he sees he can make a fictional world, closely 
resembling the actual world, and there satisfy his curiosity, 
his sense of cause and effect. This is an exercise in logic, and 
it should be remarked here that to discover causes and effects, 
whether in life or in a story, is exercising the logical imagination. 
All imagination results from the demands of logic. For logic 
is only our term for expressing the inevitable unity of things in 
our world. What we mean by seeing a story in everyday life 
may thus become the most practical training of the mind. 

To illustrate some of these points let us look into the possi- 
bilities of a story in the following section, The Necklace. The 
plot and characters that Maupassant emphasizes represent but 
one phase in many suggested by the general situation. That 
situation is this : a borrowed necklace is lost, and to pay for the 
one replaced the losers work a life-time, only to discover at last 
that the original was not genuine, but paste, worth at most a 
few hundred francs. This is the plot element in its broadest 
terms. It can be made the theme of a dozen different stories 
by as many changes of emphasis. Maupassant's treatment 
concerns an ambitious young wife who dreams of social success, 
and who, finally, for the sake of an evening at a ball, spends 
most of her husband's savings on a dress, and then, not quite 
satisfied, borrows a diamond necklace from a friend. She 
loses the necklace, and to pay for the one they substitute she 
and her husband work like drudges for years. In the end they 
learn the truth. The necklace was paste — like madame's 
social ambitions. 

It may seem a simple matter to manage this plot. Indeed, 
I have heard people say that anyone who had happened to think 
of this clever little notion could most certainly sell it. There 
are, however, a good many points to attend to before it will 
become a logical affair. Why should madame care so much 
about going to the ball? Why must she have a necklace? Why 
did she not at once tell her friend, Madame Forestier, about 



THE FIRST AXIOM in 

losing it? Or why, before this, did not Madame Forestier tell 
her that it was only paste? Monsieur Loisel was a practical 
sort of man; why did he not look at the affair more clearly? In 
Maupassant's handling of the characters all these questions are 
answered with perfect reason — that is, you do not raise such 
questions at all. The more you think over the story, as he wrote 
it, the more logically imagined you will perceive it to be — to 
the point of genius. 

The first axiom for seeing a story in everyday life is, then: 
See it as part of a logical sequence of cause and effect. 

We said that Maupassant's story represents but one phase 
of a general plot. If the emphasis is shifted definitely from the 
fact of losing the necklace to the people who lose it, we may see 
a different story forming round this plot. It might, for example, 
be the story of how the husband and wife, Monsieur and Madame 
Loisel, in the face of their misfortune, became more united, 
less trivial, developing real energy and real ambition; and how, 
when they discover that they have been working to replace a 
paste necklace, that makes no difference to them; they them- 
selves have become genuine. Or, it might be the story of a 
romantic little wife who sought to hold the affection of her 
rather brutal husband by dressing well and trying always to 
appear beautiful. For fear of him, this Madame Loisel would 
have to contrive all by herself the replacing of the necklace. 
But the discovery of its value might still bring them together, 
teaching the husband the pathetic effects of his brutality and 
the extent of his wife's devotion. Again, with another shift 
of emphasis, there would be the humorously pathetic tale of 
Monsieur Loisel — how he had for years been trying to make 
ends meet in spite of his young wife's extravagance, and how 
he was almost glad to have her realize at last, by whatever means, 
that economy ought to be their rule. For a few days Madame 
Loisel begins a new fife, with repentance and resolutions. 
Then she discovers that the necklace is only paste, and 



H2 HOW TO SEE A STORY IN EVERYDAY LIFE 

immediately celebrates by plunging into greater extravagance 
than ever. Each of these stories would require a slightly dif- 
ferent arrangement of the facts. In the last instance, for 
example, the Loisels should not be very poor, and the lost 
necklace need not be so costly as to have ruined them. There 
might also be various stories with Madame Forestier as the 
motivating force. How she pretended to Madame Loisel 
that the necklace was genuine, and (for reasons to be care- 
fully developed by the writer) was too proud to admit her 
rather harmless deceit. Or it might be that Madame Fo- 
restier, on learning that the necklace was lost, suddenly con- 
ceived the notion (for reasons to be carefully developed by 
the writer) of making a few thousand francs on its value. Com- 
plex and dramatic situations should easily result from such 
a start in falsehood. The story of the cabman in whose cab 
the necklace was probably lost could be written up from various 
points of view: his temptation to keep the necklace; or his 
discovery, on trying to sell it, that it was paste, and all that 
might conceivably follow from that. The drama of this man, 
treated in conjunction with some of the other elements of the 
larger plot, would lead to rather exciting developments. To 
Fool the Ignorant is a version of the cabman's story that shows 
how far the constructive imagination of an undergraduate will 
travel in the borders of this very interesting case. 

It is true that so versatile, so workable a plot as that of 
The Necklace is rare. Most plots neither are in themselves 
so pointed, nor do they make so large an area of suggestion. 
On the other hand, a writer with small logic and less imagination 
would probably not see in the bare plot, or what we call the 
plot element, a story in life. He would see only a snappy 
anecdote, a strange case. Written up solely for the surprise 
of the denouement, this plot will make little impression. It is 
only when related to character that it takes on meaning; for 
only then does the unusual element in the plot — the fact that 



THE SECOND AXIOM 113 

the diamonds turn out to be paste — humanize and moralize 
the whole. 

Thus we come to a second axiom: In order to see a plot as 
part of a logical sequence in life, look at it from the point of view 
of some one character, or some character relationship, and make it 
over to fit special conditions. 

From these ideas it may properly be concluded that most of 
those infrequent, strange, dramatic incidents, and those odd 
and whimsical traits of character about which we often exclaim 
that they would make a story if we only knew how to write 
them up, are by no means the best material for the imagi- 
nation. They belong to no thoroughly conceivable sequence. 
They suggest few relationships. They are thus often quite 
unrelatable. If persistently made into a story, they make of 
it, in turn, a mere tour deforce. 

We do not mean to say that the strange and the whimsical 
are never good subjects for fiction (for making over). Too 
obviously, they form a large part of current fiction. But 
the reason why most stories dealing with such things die within 
the month or the year they are born is a point in our case. 
It is not because they deal with the exceptional rather than the 
universal, — for there is no such distinction in true art, — but 
because they fail to relate the exceptional logically to life. It 
is because they see their phenomena as apart from life rather 
than as a part of fife. In order to emphasize the strange, 
the melodramatic, the balefully tragic, they isolate it. Such 
elements a logical imagination, on the contrary, nearly always 
relates to life, or at least makes into a commentary on life. 

Some of the most significant masters of current literature 
are masters of the strange. There are Mrs. Wharton and Joseph 
Conrad and Rudyard Kipling as the latest supreme examples. 
But let us take a name more solidly famous. George Eliot's 
most artistic book might well have been, in the hands of Robert 
Chambers, Rex Beach, and other super-writers of the moment, 



H4 HOW TO SEE A STORY IN EVERYDAY LIFE 

only an excellent dime novel. The villain, Dunstan Cass, 
finds himself badly out of funds. He sells his brother God- 
frey's horse, Wildfire, for a hundred and twenty pounds. But, 
unfortunately, before the money has been paid over, Dunstan 
rides Wildfire at a stake fence and kills him. He then robs an 
old miser of two bags of gold and immediately falls into a pond 
outside the miser's hut. The weight of the gold drowns him. 
A few days later Godfrey's despised, opium-eating wife freezes 
to death in a lane near by, and her baby crawls through the 
miser's doorway. The miser at first thinks that the child's 
golden head is his gold come back, but surprise covers his 
disappointment and he takes the child in. Thus the death 
of his blackmailing brother, the death of his opium-eating 
wife, and the disposal of his golden-haired daughter all con- 
spire to allow Godfrey to marry his sweetheart, Nancy 
Lammeter. Thus stated, how melodramatic — fit only for a 
" movie " — do the plot elements of a great classic appear. 
The genius of logical imagination renders these elements con- 
sonant and full of significance. 

So, in the selections that follow, it will be seen that the 
incidents of The Fiancee or of A Page From a Doctor's Life are 
typical rather than exceptional, and that the very clever plots 
of Wellington and Left Behind are striking only because they 
appeal to our sense of fitness. 

The problem of the story-writer who wishes to make an effect 
with the unusual is, then, not to choose the unusual for its own 
sake, but for the sake of throwing over it a coloring of imagi- 
nation to render it significant for the rest of experience. Mrs. 
Sembower's story of The Chaperon has an odd enough plot. 
It is surely an infrequent occurrence for a country girl to go 
alone to the city to have her portrait painted because she has 
won a newspaper guessing contest. It may be regarded as only 
less infrequent that the "city artist" should fall in love with 
her. A student, starting to work up a story on this undefined 



THE THIRD AXIOM 115 

plot, is apt to think of the chief composing force in it as the 
inevitable love affair — "The girl wins the prize and of course 
the painter falls in love with her, so she wins a husband, too. 
The romance is the point to emphasize." But these plot 
elements are not the composing forces of Mrs. Sembower's 
story. The chief composing force is the girl's home life and her 
reaction upon city conventions. This is a plain everyday 
motif, and it touches on the romantic elements in the plot for 
emphasis of itself. The reader feels that the story forms not 
a whimsical, but a thoroughly mature, comment on manners. 

Our third axiom therefore results from the preceding illus- 
trations: An incident or a character becomes significant, not 
when we isolate it, but when we see so many of its contacts and 
bearings that it begins to play a part in our imagination. 

That is, whenever we see the full meaning of any act, trait 
of character, emotion, or opinion, we see a whole story. And 
whenever we can suggest the whole story through the little 
of it that we have space to tell, we have seen the story in life. 
The faculty for doing this is logical imagination, and we shall 
conclude this chapter with a further word about that faculty. 

We began our discussion by remarking on the unity of life. 
This unity is felt rather than known. The planet is too big, 
too shadowy, to allow us to know very many things outside the 
little lighted spot of our personal experience. If anyone could 
really make the great analysis of things as they are — we all 
like to guess how they ought to be — he could rule the planet. 
But because the world is so big, the future is dim and seems dimly 
related to the past. When, however, we shut off a corner of 
the world and limit our attention to that, we can make a tem- 
porary explanation of causes and effects. The act of doing this 
is making a story, and the skill required for it is logical imagi- 
nation. For this corner must be described logically — just as 
if it were part of the actual world; and yet it must be imaginary 
— just as if it were a little world in itself where we know the 



n6 HOW TO SEE A STORY IN EVERYDAY LIFE 

extent of all influences and relationships. Logical imagination 
is the highest faculty of mind, the faculty which great philos- 
ophers, great dramatists, great statesmen have in common. 

The great stories are those which most perfectly construct 
an imaginary corner of the world. They are such novels as 
Middlemarch or Far from the Madding Crowd, from which we 
quote in Section IV. After reading Middlemarch you know 
nearly one hundred people. You know thirty of them well 
enough to say not only what they think of each other and how 
their affairs affect each other, but also well enough to prophesy 
what their opinions and acts would be in a totally new set of 
contingencies. Middlemarch is a little world in itself, some- 
thing like your own locality, but differing chiefly, when you stop 
to think of it, in the greater definiteness of its affairs. From 
it an infinite number of confusing influences and extra possi- 
bilities are shut off in order to permit us to see life there in its 
story form. So long as Middlemarch is a place in fiction we 
can see it steadily and see it whole; put it back into its actual 
geography, call it your own town of Madison, Wisconsin, or 
Northampton, Massachusetts, and it grows instantly less clear. 
The reason is that it now becomes part of the whole world. 
If we could surround Madison with a brass wall, all its affairs 
would gradually become definite and its problems would be 
solvable. It would be just like a place in fiction — and it is 
a nice question whether you would prefer to live within the 
brass wall or without it. At all events, if you can see the affairs 
of your town as fiction you will be developing the kind of imagi- 
nation that one day may help to straighten them out. 1 

1 As an exercise of the logical imagination the writer once gave his students 
the following problem to solve: If your state were to be surrounded to-night 
by an impassable brass wall, what would happen during the first week of 
isolation? What would be the state of affairs after a year? What would be the 
state of affairs after a century? Would the people finally be more or less con- 
tented than before? Would the people inside be more efficient than those outside? 
Would they take more interest or less interest in their public affairs? Would 



THE THIRD AXIOM 117 

Fiction has of late influenced the world more than any other 
art. So, whether you are dealing with a whole countryside, 
as in Middlemarch, or with two people in a tenement, as in A 
Page from a Doctor's Life, you are trying to hold a bit of the 
world steady enough for a moment to see it straight, and the 
exercise is one which, could it become a habit of mind among 
our citizens, would make the world over more rapidly than the 
plans of all the politicians of Europe and America. 

they be broader or narrower minded? Would the people inside the wall want to 
get out more than the people outside would want to get in? 

For the first week of this discussion we advanced in theory no faster than the 
brass-bound people would probably do in practice. All was contradiction and 
confusion. But soon certain fundamental policies defined themselves, and then 
the more fanciful imagination of the class began to work logically. We arrived 
at the following airy conclusions: The effort to pass the impassable wall would 
never cease — -and this would prove to be the greatest wit-sharpener and tool- 
sharpener and the greatest boon to intramural civilization. The relation between 
population and means to a completely healthy life would adjust itself with sur- 
prising rapidity. This would be partly effected, as in certain South Sea islands, 
by a scheme of birth control. There would be within a hundred years a marked 
change in the character of the intramural race owing to food and climatic influences. 
People would become more and more alike, and would react against this tendency 
so strongly that there would be a whimsical and amusing faddism throughout 
society. As an instance of what changes in the countryside would be most ap- 
parent to the eye, we discovered vast spaces glassed over and wonderfully ventilated, 
in which to grow tropical products. We found that dress, traffic, and all the me- 
chanics of daily life would soon become so perfect that everyone would have the 
chance to reach an advanced state of intellectual culture, but that this achievement 
would not be the greatest source of honor or of personal satisfaction. That alone 
would come from personal contribution to work on the vast excavations and mines 
at the great wall. From this final conclusion we proceeded to look at the startling 
analogy in metal-bound Europe of to-day. 



VII. THE FIANCEE 1 

Marguerite Audoux 

[]The art of looking at things vividly is, of course, essential to developing stories 
out of everyday experience. In this sketch, by the author of that very vivid book, 
Marie Claire, you meet in a railway carriage a pleasant country couple who are 
going to the city to their son's wedding. They have not yet seen the fiancee, — 
they are all expectation. One of the other passengers remarks humorously that you 
yourself are perhaps the fiancee come to get a secret look at your future parents. 
This little situation, in no way developed into a plot, but only looked at with that 
sharpness of imagination which is always so charming in Marie Claire, is all there 
is of the sketch. It is but a glimpse, yet how remotely suggestive.] 

I was going back to Paris after a few days' holiday. When 
I got to the station the train was crowded. I peeped into every 
carriage, hoping to find a place. There was one in the last 
carriage, but two big baskets, out of which ducks and hens 
were peeping, rilled the seat. After a long moment's hesitation, 
I decided to get in. I apologized for disturbing the passengers, 
but a man in a blouse said: 

"Wait a moment, mademoiselle; I'll take the baskets 
down." 

And while I held the basket of fruit which he had on his knees, 
he slipped the baskets with the ducks and hens under the seat. 
The ducks did not like it, and told us so. The hens dropped 
their heads as if they had been insulted, and the peasant's wife 
talked to them, calling them by their names. 

When I was seated, and the ducks were quiet, the passenger 
opposite me asked the peasant whether he was taking the birds 
to market. 

"No, sir," said the man. "I am taking them to my son, 
who is going to be married the day after to-morrow." 

1 Reprinted from Everybody's Magazine with the kind permission of the editors 
and of the author. 



MARGUERITE AUDOUX 119 

His face was beaming, and he looked around as if he wanted 
everybody to know how happy he was. An old woman who was 
hunched up in the corner among three pillows, and who filled 
double the space she should occupy, began grumbling about 
peasants who took up such a lot of room in the train. 

The train started, and the passenger who had asked about the 
birds was opening his newspaper, when the peasant said to him: 

"My boy is in Paris. He is working in a shop, and he is 
going to marry a young lady who is in a shop, too." 

The passenger let his open paper drop to his knees. He held 
it with one hand and, leaning forward a little, asked: 

"Is the fiancee pretty?" 

"We do not know," said the man. "We haven't seen her 
yet." 

"Really?" said the passenger. "And if she were ugly, and 
you did not like her?" 

"That is one of the things that can always happen," answered 
the countryman. "But I think we shall like her, because our 
boy is too fond of us to take an ugly wife." 

"Besides," said the little woman next me, "if she pleases 
our Philip, she will please us, too." 

She turned to me, and her gentle eyes were full of smiles. 
She had a little, round, fresh face, and I could not believe that 
she was the mother of a son who was old enough to marry. 
She wanted to know whether I was going to Paris too, and when 
I said yes, the passenger opposite began to joke. 

"I should like to bet," he said, "that this young lady is the 
fiancee. She has come to meet her father- and mother-in-law, 
without telling them who she is." 

Everybody looked at me, and I got very red. The country- 
man and his wife said, together: 

"We should be very pleased if it were true." 

I told them that it was not true, but the passenger reminded 
them that I had walked up and down twice as if I were looking 



120 THE FIANCEE 

for somebody, and that I had been a long time making up my 
mind to get into that carriage. 

All the other passengers laughed, and I explained as well as 
I could that this was the only place I had found. 

"Never mind," said the countrywoman. "I shall be very 
happy if our daughter-in-law is like you." 

"Yes," said her husband. "I hope she will look like you." 

The passenger kept up his joke; he glanced at me maliciously 
and said to the peasants: 

"When you get to Paris you will see that I am not wrong. 
Your son will say to you, ' Here is my fiancee.' " 

A little while afterward the countrywoman turned toward me, 
fumbled in her basket, and pulled out a cake, saying that she 
had made it herself that morning. I didn't know how to refuse 
her, but I said I had a bad cold and a touch of fever, and the 
cake went back into the basket. Then she offered me a bunch 
of grapes, which I was obliged to accept. And I had the great- 
est difficulty in preventing her husband from going to get me 
something hot to drink when the train stopped. 

As I looked at these good people, who were so anxious to love 
the wife their son had chosen, I felt sorry that I was not to be 
their daughter-in-law. I knew how sweet their affection would 
have been to me. I had never known my parents, and had 
always lived among strangers. 

Every now and again I caught them staring at me. 

When we arrived at the station in Paris I helped them lift 
their baskets down, and showed them the way out. I moved 
a little away from them as I saw a tall young man rush at them 
and hug them. He kissed them over and over again, one after 
the other. They smiled and looked very happy. They did 
not hear the porters shouting as they bumped into them with 
the luggage. 

I followed them to the gate. The son had passed one arm 
through the handle of the basket with the hens, and thrown 



MARGUERITE AUDOUX 121 

the other round his mother's waist. Like his father, he had 
happy eyes and a broad smile. 

Outside it was nearly dark. I turned up the collar of my coat, 
and I remained a few steps behind the happy old couple, while 
their son went to look for a cab. The countryman stroked the 
head of a big hen with spots of all colors, and said to his wife: 

"If we had known that she was not our daughter-in-law, 
we might have given her the spotted one." 

His wife stroked the spotted hen, too, and said: "Yes, if 
we had known." 

She made a movement toward the crowd of people who were 
coming out of the station, and, looking into the distance, said: 

"She is going off with all those people." 

The son came back with a cab. He put his father and 
mother into it and got up on to the box by the driver. He sat 
sideways so as not to lose sight of them. He looked strong and 
gentle, and I thought, "His fiancee is a happy girl." 

When the cab had disappeared I went slowly out into the 
streets. I could not make up my mind to go back to my 
lonely little room. I was twenty years old, and nobody had 
ever spoken of love to me. 



VIII. A PAGE FROM THE DOCTOR'S LIFE 
F. W. Stuart, Jr. 

[Harvard University] 

[Like the last, this piece shows how to color the fictional element in the 
everyday material about one. It does not show how to relate it to a significant 
plot, as in the case of the succeeding selections. How to emphasize plot, how to 
imbed it in the fictional element and make it truly formative there, is, of course, 
the writer's most important problem. To make these two sketches over into 
stories with plot is an interesting exercise.] 

Poverty Village was well named. So evident was this fact 
that its inhabitants accepted the name without protest. As 
is the habit of "Poverty Villages," it stood on the flats near the 
water. Its rows of neglected, weather-stained houses teemed 
with unfortunates whose share of this world's goods just sufficed 
to keep body and soul together. Poverty was the lot of all who 
lived within its borders, and only too often poverty was the 
near neighbor of pauperism and crime. Few were they who 
came from the outer world into Poverty Village, and these usually 
to minister to its miseries — the policeman and the priest, the 
nurse, the doctor, and the undertaker. 

Thus it happened that one unusually hot August afternoon 
the "city doctor" was going about Poverty Village waging his 
unequal battle against want and ignorance. Wearily he turned 
into an alley, stopped for a moment in front of one of its houses, 
and gazed, almost wistfully, at the knob of the door-bell. In 
Poverty Village the door-bell has only one purpose. To it the 
undertaker attaches the piece of crape which tells of death. 
A look of disappointment passed over the doctor's face as he 
saw that death had not yet come to bring relief to the unfor- 
tunate whom he was about to visit. With a heavy heart he 



F. W. STUART, JR. 123 

climbed the stairway and entered a bare, scantily furnished 
room. 

At an open window sat the patient, a young man about twenty- 
seven years old. The extreme emaciation, the hectic flush, and 
the hacking cough told only too plainly that consumption was 
soon to count him another victim. In response to the doctor's 
"How are you?" he replied eagerly, "About the same. I'm 
glad you've come." His voice was so hoarse as to be hardly 
intelligible. He was suffering from tubercular laryngitis. 
He could speak only with great difficulty, and was unable to 
swallow at all until his larynx had been painted with cocaine. 
So three times a day the doctor came to give him a few moments 
of relief, a few moments which he might use to take a little food 
and drink. 

As the doctor took out his instruments and prepared to per- 
form his act of mercy, the patient, with a nod toward the table, 
said, "See what they have brought me." 

Sadness and sarcasm could be detected in the weak, painful 
voice. There on the table were a chocolate cake, a Bible, and 
a hymn book, brought by the friendly charity visitor who had 
charge of "the case." The doctor could not repress a smile 
as he looked at the rich cake, which would have proved a severe 
test even for his robust digestion. 

He picked up the Bible, one of the kind so often distributed 
by religious societies. It was printed on poor paper and with 
such fine type that it would seem as if the Bible societies and 
the oculists must have entered into a secret compact whereby 
both were to benefit. With an air of impatience the doctor laid 
the Bible down, and picked up the hymn book. This he opened 
at random, and his eyes fell on the words 

One sweetly solemn thought 

Comes to me o'er and o'er, 
Nearer my Father's house am I 

Than e'er I was before." 



124 A PAGE FROM THE DOCTOR'S LIFE 

The doctor had not attended church since his college days, 
but, as he read the words of the hymn, he was carried back 
to his Sunday school, to the days when he pictured the Almighty 
as an old man with a long white beard, seated in an armchair 
such as was to be found in every New England parlor. He 
remembered how lustily he had joined in singing those words, 
when the cares of life and the solemnity of death were unknown 
to him. 

But now in the presence of the sufferer who was really 
so near his Father's house there seemed something incon- 
gruous in the fact that he, who was doing his best to fight off 
death, should read of this sweetly solemn thought. Perhaps 
it was with regret that the doctor looked back to those 
careless schoolboy days. His thoughts were interrupted by 
the querulous voice of the patient, who said, "Doctor, please 
hurry. I've suffered to-day terribly from the heat. I'm so 
thirsty." 

The doctor thus called to his duty laid down the hymn book, 
and in a moment had deftly painted the patient's throat with 
cocaine. He then reached under the sink and drew forth 
the patient's dinner. And how insufficient a dinner it was — 
a pint of milk which through long standing had become warm 
and insipid. 

Relieved of his pain and somewhat refreshed by the milk, 
the sick man brightened considerably and began to apologize 
to the doctor for his impatience. He became confidential 
and related his sad story, only too familiar to the doctor — the 
old, old story of bad heredity, bad environment, and bad habits. 
Like many an ill-nourished boy he had early acquired a love for 
stimulants, and alcohol had made him an easy prey to consump- 
tion. The talking soon tired him, and with a look at the 
chocolate cake he finished by saying, "I would give a dozen 
of them for one cold glass of beer." 

There was something so earnest, so pitiful, in his manner 



F W. STUART, JR. 125 

that the doctor immediately seized the milk can and hurried 
to the nearest bar-room. He returned with the beer, and 
then bade his patient good-bye until evening. 

In the evening his patient appeared to be quite comfort- 
able and in a very happy mood. With considerable humor 
he told how the charity visitor had called and caught him 
drinking beer. His description of the horror of that most 
worthy woman as she gazed now at the untouched cake and now 
at the empty can was full of homely wit. One thing troubled 
him a little. He had felt obliged to tell her that it was the 
doctor who had purchased the beer for him. That she had 
made clear to him her opinion of a man who apparently pre- 
ferred Puck, Judge, and beer to Bible, hymn book, and cake, 
was quite evident. And he feared that she would at the first 
opportunity make things unpleasant for his real friend. He 
was quickly reassured on this point by the doctor, who, how- 
ever, kept discreetly to himself his opinion of some of that form 
of religious dissipation which passes for " charity work." Soon, 
doctor and patient parted with a "goodnight" which sounded 
more cheerful than for a long time. 

Toward morning a loud ring called the doctor to his 
door. There stood the mother of his patient sobbing 
in agony and crying: "Come quick; my boy is dead." 
When the doctor reached the house he found the patient 
lying, as it were, peacefully asleep, but his sleep was the 
sleep of death. 

With a sense of relief the doctor looked for the last time into 
the upturned face, and left the house. He went down to the 
foot of the street and stood at a place where he could look out 
over the harbor. Dawn had just begun to tinge the eastern 
sky. The atmosphere was like the stillness of a dream. The 
doctor tried for some moments to understand the mystery that 
lay behind him. In the sad story of the young man there ap- 
peared a peculiar irony, especially in the fact that the enemy 



126 A PAGE FROM THE DOCTOR'S LIFE 

which had lured him to his death had given him his last painless 
moments. As the doctor recalled the sufferings and thought 
of the quiet of the death chamber,- it seemed as if in this case 
one might well speak of the Angel of Death. 

Then, a milkwagon rushing past disturbed his thoughts. 
He turned about and went on into the toil of the day. 



IX. THE NECKLACE 1 

Guy de Maupassant 

[This story is commented upon at length in the Introduction to Part II, pages 
110-113. It is interesting to discuss what may have been the initial suggestion 
from which any story is written. In this case, was it the character of Madame 
Loisel, a type of woman that the author wished to define; or, was it the clever 
surprise at the end of the narrative? This surprise, at first thought, strikes us as 
the outstanding and original feature of the plot.] 

She was one of those pretty and charming girls who are 
sometimes, as if by a mistake of destiny, born in a family of 
clerks. She had no dowry, no expectations, no means of being 
known, understood, loved, wedded, by any rich and distinguished 
man; and she let herself be married to a little clerk at the 
Ministry of Public Instruction. 

She dressed plainly because she could not dress well, but she 
was as unhappy as though she had really fallen from her proper 
station; since with women there is neither caste nor rank; 
and beauty, grace, and charm act instead of family and birth. 
Natural fineness, instinct for what is elegant, suppleness of wit, 
are the sole hierarchy, and make from women of the people the 
equals of the very greatest ladies. 

She suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born for all the deli- 
cacies and all the luxuries. She suffered from the poverty of 
her dwelling, from the wretched look of the walls, from the worn- 
out chairs, from the ugliness of the curtains. All those things, 
of which another woman of her rank would never even have 
been conscious, tortured her and made her angry. The sight 
of the little Breton peasant who did her humble house- work 
aroused in her regrets which were despairing, and distracted 

1 Reprinted from The Odd Number with the kind permission of Harper and 
Brothers. 



128 THE NECKLACE 

dreams. She thought of the silent antechambers hung with 
Oriental tapestry, lit by tall bronze candelabra, and of the two 
great footmen in knee-breeches who sleep in the big arm- 
chairs, made drowsy by the heavy warmth of the hot-air 
stove. She thought of the long salons fitted up with ancient 
silk, of the delicate furniture carrying priceless curiosities, 
and of the coquettish perfumed boudoirs made for talks 
at five o'clock with intimate friends, with men famous and 
sought after, whom all women envy and whose attention they 
all desire. 

When she sat down to dinner, before the round table covered 
with a table-cloth three days old, opposite her husband, who 
uncovered the soup-tureen and declared with an enchanted 
air, "Ah, the good pot-au-feu! I don't know anything better 
than that," she thought of dainty dinners, of shining silverware, 
of tapestry which peopled the walls with ancient personages 
and with strange birds flying in the midst of a fairy forest; 
and she thought of delicious dishes served on marvellous plates, 
and of the whispered gallantries which you listen to with a 
sphinx-like smile, while you are eating the pink flesh of a trout 
or the wings of a quail. 

She had no dresses, no jewels, nothing. And she loved nothing 
but that; she felt made for that. She would so have liked to 
please, to be envied, to be charming, to be sought after. 

She had a friend, a former school-mate at the convent, who 
was rich, and whom she did not like to go and see any more, 
because she suffered so much when she came back. 

But one evening her husband returned home with a trium- 
phant air, and holding a large envelope in his hand. 

"There," said he, "here is something for you." 

She tore the paper sharply, and drew out a printed card which 
bore these words: 

"The Minister of Public Instruction and Mme. Georges 
Ramponneau request the honor of M. and Mme. Loisel's com- 



GUY DE MAUPASSANT 129 

pany at the palace of the Ministry on Monday evening, January 
18th." 

Instead of being delighted, as her husband hoped, she threw 
the invitation on the table with disdain, murmuring: 

"What do you want me to do with that?" 

"But, my dear, I thought you would be glad. You never 
go out, and this is such a fine opportunity. I had awful trouble 
to get it. Everyone wants to go; it is very select, and they 
are not giving many invitations to clerks. The whole official 
world will be there." 

She looked at him with an irritated eye, and she said, im- 
patiently: 

"And what do you want me to put on my back?" 

He had not thought of that; he stammered: 

"Why, the dress you go to the theatre in. It looks very 
well, to me." 

He stopped, distracted, seeing that his wife was crying. 
Two great tears descended slowly from the corners of her eyes 
towards the corners of her mouth. He stuttered: 

"What's the matter? What's the matter?" 

But, by a violent effort, she had conquered her grief, and 
she replied, with a calm voice, while she wiped her wet cheeks: 

"Nothing. Only I have no dress, and therefore I can't go 
to this ball. Give your card to some colleague whose wife is 
better equipped than I." 

He was in despair. He resumed: 

"Come, let us see, Mathilde. How much would it cost, 
a suitable dress, which you could use on other occasions, some- 
thing very simple?" 

She reflected several seconds, making her calculations and 
wondering also what sum she could ask without drawing on 
herself an immediate refusal and a frightened exclamation from 
the economical clerk. 

Finally, she replied, hesitatingly: 



i 3 o THE NECKLACE 

"I don't know exactly, but I think I could manage it with 
four hundred francs." 

He had grown a little pale, because he was laying aside just 
that amount to buy a gun and treat himself to a little shooting 
next summer on the plain of Nanterre, with several friends 
who went to shoot larks down there, of a Sunday. 

But he said: 

"All right. I will give you four hundred francs. And try 
to have a pretty dress." 

The day of the ball drew near, and Mme. Loisel seemed sad, 
uneasy, anxious. Her dress was ready, however. Her husband 
said to her one evening: 

"What is the matter? Come, you've been so queer these 
last three days." 

And she answered: 

"It annoys me not to have a single jewel, not a single stone, 
nothing to put on. I shall look like distress. I should almost 
rather not go at all." 

He resumed: 

"You might wear natural flowers. It's very stylish at this 
time of the year. For ten francs you can get two or three 
magnificent roses." 

She was not convinced. 

"No; there's nothing more humiliating than to look poor 
among other women who are rich." 

But her husband cried: 

"How stupid you are! Go look up your friend Mme. Fores- 
tier, and ask her to lend you some jewels. You 're quite thick 
enough with her to do that." 

She uttered a cry of joy: 

"It's true. I never thought of it." 

The next day she went to her friend and told of her distress. 

Mme. Forestier went to a wardrobe with a glass door, took 



GUY DE MAUPASSANT 131 

out a large jewel-box, brought it back, opened it, and said to 
Mme. Loisel: 

"Choose, my dear." 

She saw first of all some bracelets, then a pearl necklace, 
then a Venetian cross, gold and precious stones of admirable 
workmanship. She tried on the ornaments before the glass, 
hesitated, could not make up her mind to part with them, 
to give them back. She kept asking: 

" Haven't you any more?" 

"Why, yes. Look. I don't know what you like." 

All of a sudden she discovered, in a black satin box, a superb 
necklace of diamonds and her heart began to beat with an 
immoderate desire. Her hands trembled as she took it. She 
fastened it around her throat, outside her high-necked dress, 
and remained lost in ecstasy at the sight of herself. 

Then she asked, hesitating, filled with anguish: 

"Can you lend me that, only that?" 

"Why, yes, certainly." 

She sprang upon the neck of her friend, kissed her passionately, 
then fled with her treasure. 

The day of the ball arrived. Mme. Loisel made a great suc- 
cess. She was prettier than them all, elegant, gracious, smiling, 
and crazy with joy. All the men looked at her, asked her name, 
endeavored to be introduced. All the attaches of the Cabinet 
wanted to waltz with her. She was remarked by the minister 
himself. 

She danced with intoxication, with passion, made drunk by 
pleasure, forgetting all, in the triumph of her beauty, in the 
glory of her success, in a sort of cloud of happiness composed of 
all this homage, of all this admiration, of all these awakened 
desires, and of that sense of complete victory which is so sweet 
to woman's heart. 

She went away about four o'clock in the morning. Her 



132 THE NECKLACE 

husband had been sleeping since midnight, in a little deserted 
anteroom, with three other gentlemen whose wives were having 
a very good time. 

He threw over her shoulders the wraps which he had brought, 
modest wraps of common life, whose poverty contrasted with 
the elegance of the ball dress. She felt this and wanted to es- 
cape so as not to be remarked by the other women, who were 
enveloping themselves in costly furs. 

Loisel held her back. 

"Wait a bit. You will catch cold outside. I will go and 
call a cab." 

But she did not listen to him, and rapidly descended the 
stairs. When they were in the street they did not find a car- 
riage; and they began to look for one, shouting after the cabmen 
whom they saw passing by at a distance. 

They went down towards the Seine, in despair, shivering 
with cold. At last they found on the quay one of those ancient 
noctambulant coupes which, exactly as if they were ashamed to 
show their misery during the day, are never seen round Paris 
until after nightfall. 

It took them to their door in the Rue des Martyrs, and once 
more, sadly, they climbed up homeward. All was ended, for 
her. And as to him, he reflected that he must be at the Ministry 
at ten o'clock. 

She removed the wraps, which covered her shoulders, before 
the glass, so as once more to see herself in all her glory. But 
suddenly she uttered a cry. She had no longer the necklace 
around her neck I 

Her husband, already half-undressed, demanded: 

"What is the matter with you?" 

She turned madly towards him: 

"I have — I have — I've lost Mme. Forestier's necklace." 

He stood up, distracted. 

"What! — how? — Impossible!" 



GUY DE MAUPASSANT 133 

And they looked in the folds of her dress, in the folds of her 
cloak, in her pockets, everywhere. They did not find it. 

He asked: 

"You're sure you had it on when you left the ball?" 

"Yes, I felt it in the vestibule of the palace." 

"But if you had lost it in the street we should have heard it 
fall. It must be in the cab." 

"Yes. Probably. Did you take his number?" 

"No. And you, didn't you notice it?" 

"No." 

They looked, thunderstruck, at one another. At last Loisel 
put on his clothes. 

"I shall go back on foot," said he, "over the whole route 
which we have taken, to see if I can't find it." 

And he went out. She sat waiting on a chair in her ball 
dress, without strength to go to bed, overwhelmed, without 
fire, without a thought. 

Her husband came back about seven o'clock. He had found 
nothing. 

He went to Police Headquarters, to the newspaper offices, 
to offer a reward; he went to the cab companies — everywhere, 
in fact, whither he was urged by the least suspicion of hope. 

She waited all day, in the same condition of mad fear before 
this terrible calamity. 

Loisel returned at night with a hollow, pale face; he had 
discovered nothing. 

"You must write to your friend," said he, "that you have 
broken the clasp of her necklace and that you are having it 
mended. That will give us time to turn round." 

She wrote at his dictation. 

At the end of a week they had lost all hope. 

And Loisel, who had aged five years, declared: 

"We must consider how to replace that ornament." 

The next day they took the box which had contained it, and 



134 THE NECKLACE 

they went to the jeweller whose name was found within. He 
consulted his books. 

"It was not I, madame, who sold that necklace; I must 
simply have furnished the case." 

Then they went from jeweller to jeweller, searching for a 
necklace like the other, consulting their memories, sick both of 
them with chagrin and with anguish. 

They found, in a shop at the Palais Royal, a string of diamonds 
which seemed to them exactly like the one they looked for. It was 
worth forty thousand francs. They could have it for thirty-six. 

So they begged the jeweller not to sell it for three days yet. 
And they made a bargain that he should buy it back for thirty- 
four thousand francs, in case they found the other one before 
the end of February. 

Loisel possessed eighteen thousand francs which his father 
had left him. He would borrow the rest. 

He did borrow, asking a thousand francs of one, five hundred 
of another, five louis here, three louis there. He gave notes, 
took up ruinous obligations, dealt with usurers, and all the race 
of lenders. He compromised all the rest of his life, risked his 
signature without even knowing if he could meet it; and, 
frightened by the pains yet to come, by the black misery which 
was about to fall upon him, by the prospect of all the physical 
privations and of all the moral tortures which he was to suffer, 
he went to get the new necklace, putting down upon the mer- 
chant's counter thirty-six thousand francs. 

When Mme. Loisel took back the necklace, Mme. Forestier 
said to her, with a chilly manner: 

"You should have returned it sooner, I might have needed it." 

She did not open the case, as her friend had so much feared. 
If she had detected the substitution, what would she have 
thought, what would she have said? Would she not have 
taken Mme. Loisel for a thief? 

Mme. Loisel now knew the horrible existence of the needy, 



GUY DE MAUPASSANT 135 

She took her part, moreover, all on a sudden, with heroism. 
That dreadful debt must be paid. She would pay it. They 
dismissed their servant; they changed their lodgings; they 
rented a garret under the roof. 

She came to know what heavy housework meant and the 
odious cares of the kitchen. She washed the dishes, using her 
rosy nails on the greasy pots and pans. She washed the dirty 
linen, the shirts, and the dish-cloths, which she dried upon a 
line; she carried the slops down to the street every morning, 
and carried up the water, stopping for breath at every landing. 
And, dressed like a woman of the people, she went to the fruit- 
erer, the grocer, the butcher, her basket on her arm, bargaining, 
insulted, defending her miserable money sou by sou. 

Each month they had to meet some notes, renew others, ob- 
tain more time. 

Her husband worked in the evening making a fair copy of 
some tradesman's accounts, and late at night he often copied 
manuscript for five sous a page. 

And this life lasted ten years. 

At the end of ten years they had paid everything, every thing, with 
the rates of usury, and the accumulations of the compound interest. 

Mme. Loisel looked old now. She had become the woman 
of impoverished households — strong and hard and rough. 
With frowsy hair, skirts askew, and red hands, she talked loud 
while washing the floor with great swishes of water. But 
sometimes, when her husband was at the office, she sat down near 
the window, and she thought of that gay evening of long ago, 
of that ball where she had been so beautiful and so feted. 

What would have happened if she had not lost that necklace? 
Who knows? who knows? How life is strange and changeful! 
How little a thing is needed for us to be lost or to be saved ! 

But, one Sunday, having gone to take a walk in the Champs 
Elysees to refresh herself from the labors of the week, she sud- 



136 THE NECKLACE 

denly perceived a woman who was leading a child. It was 
Mme. Forestier, still young, still beautiful, still charming. 

Mme. Loisel felt moved. Was she going to speak to her? 
Yes, certainly. And now that she had paid, she was going to 
tell her all about it. Why not? 

She went up. 

" Good-day, Jeanne." 

The other, astonished to be familiarly addressed by this plain 
good- wife, did not recognize her at all, and stammered : 

"But — madame! — I do not know — You must have mis- 
taken." 

"No. I am Mathilde Loisel." 

Her friend uttered a cry. 

"Oh, my poor Mathilde! How you are changed!" 

"Yes, I have had days hard enough, since I have seen you, 
days wretched enough — and that because of you!" 

"Of me! How so?" 

"Do you remember that diamond necklace which you lent 
me to wear at the ministerial ball?" 

"Yes. Well?" 

"Well, I lost it." 

"What do you mean? You brought it back." 

"I brought you back another just like it. And for this we 
have been ten years paying. You can understand that it was 
not easy for us, us who had nothing. At last it is ended, and 
I am very glad." 

Mme. Forestier had stopped. 

"You say that you bought a necklace of diamonds to replace 
mine?" 

"Yes. You never noticed it, then! They were very like." 

And she smiled with a joy which was proud and naive at once. 

Mme. Forestier, strongly moved, took her two hands. 

"Oh, my poor Mathilde! Why, my necklace was paste. 
It was worth at most five hundred francs!" 



X. "TO FOOL THE IGNORANT 5 ' 
Ernest L. Meyer 

[University of Wisconsin] 

[This story is derived from the preceding, but its plot covers a whole new 
area. The question of what was the initial suggestion from which this story 
was written, can here be definitely answered, and the development of the writer's 
imagination can be logically traced. (See the note on the preceding story, page 
127.)] 

It was late at night when Mathieu Le Farge came in from 
the stables and entered his little home on the Rue St. Antoine. 
The lamp was burning on the kitchen table, and food was set 
out for him, but instead of sitting down to eat he flung his 
coachman's cloak and hat across a chair and paced to and fro 
in the narrow room. His eyes, deeply set beneath heavy brows, 
glistened with suppressed excitement as he chuckled to him- 
self. Suddenly he stepped to a closed door at one side of the 
kitchen and flung it open. 

"Marie!" he called loudly. 

He stood in the doorway for a moment; then, hearing his 
wife stirring in the other room, he began to walk up and down 
again. In a few moments Madame Le Farge entered. She 
had flung a dark cloak over her nightdress, and this and 
the long black hair that streamed over her shoulders accented 
the unnatural pallor of her face. She was visibly agitated. 
Her eyes, when she raised them for a second to gaze into her 
husband's face, fluttered with apprehension. Her slight figure 
seemed to shrink under the folds of the cloak. 

"You — you called me, Mathieu — so late?" 

"Yes," replied Mathieu exultantly. "I called you. I 
have had rare good luck, Marie. Our bread and butter days are 
over. We are rich — rich. See what I found to-night." 



138 "TO FOOL THE IGNORANT" 

He plucked from his coat pocket a glittering necklace of 
diamonds and held them in front of her eyes. The woman fell 
back with a sharp intaking of breath, and her hands went up to 
her heart. Her lips were closed in a thin, straight line. 

"Why do you act like that?" exclaimed Mathieu. "I did 
not steal them. I came by them honestly. I found them, I 
tell you, and there is nothing wrong in that." 

She began to sway, and would have fallen had she not placed 
her hand against the door to steady herself. 

"To-night," went on Mathieu rapidly, "I had my hack near 
the great house where the ball of the Minister of Instruction 
was held. They came out rather early, a man and a woman, 
and even then I marked the necklace glitter on her neck, and 
I envied them their riches. I drove them to their home, and 
then I drove back here to my stable. I unharnessed the horse. 
Then I took the robes out of the hack, and was about to walk 
home when the light from my lantern glistened on the jewels 
lying on the ground. They must have fallen from the lady's 
neck and slid out of sight in the folds of the robe. Ah, they 
are beauties, Marie. Once I saw a necklace that cost five 
thousand francs and it was not half so fine." 

He would have talked on, but he noticed that his wife was 
as pale as death and that her breath was coming and going 
in short, quick gasps. 

"You are ill," he cried. "This good news has been too 
much for you. I myself can hardly believe that it is true. 
But to-morrow you shall see. I will come back from the 
jeweler, Descartes, with a roll of banknotes as round as my 
fist." 

"Descartes!" she burst out. 

"Ah," said Mathieu, "now I know. It is your silly scruples. 
Pooh! Why should I not sell the jewels? They were rich and 
can stand the loss, while we are poor and the money means 
happiness to us. You are far too honest, Marie. Come, now, 



ERNEST L. MEYER 139 

I will help you to your room and you shall rest, but I am too 
happy to sleep to-night. I will go out and celebrate our good 
fortune, and to-morrow when you are well again we will go 
together and buy many wonderful things." 

He was so blinded by his own great joy that he failed to see 
the anguish in her face. He put his arm about her and helped 
her into the bedroom. A moment later he came back, put on 
his best cloak and hat, and left the house. Proceeding rapidly 
up the dark street, he soon emerged into the boulevard that 
glittered with life and light. Mathieu had with him twenty 
francs, taken from his slender hoard at home. In a snug 
cafe he found convivial companions, excellent wine, and good 
music. There he talked and sang in high good humor. 

In the early morning he walked in the park for an hour to 
clear his head, and at the time when the shops were beginning 
to open he retraced his course. Soon he passed a window 
that fairly burned with magnificent jewels. 

"Ah," thought Mathieu, "this man may give me a better 
price than my neighbor, Descartes." 

He entered the shop after a moment's hesitation and walked 
boldly up to a little man with sharp eyes who was arranging 
things in one of the showcases. 

" Good morning, monsieur," said Mathieu. " Could I trouble 
you to put a value upon something I have here?" 

He took the necklace from his pocket and handed it to the 
jeweler. The latter glanced at him shrewdly. 

"I have had good luck," said Mathieu easily. "A legacy 
left me by an uncle in Toulouse." 

The little man took the necklace to his work table, clapped 
a glass to his right eye and peered intently. Then he came back 
and said shortly: "Paste." 

"Paste!" echoed Mathieu, thunderstruck. 

"Yes, monsieur. Worth, I should say, about twenty francs. 
It is a clever imitation, and good enough to fool the ignorant." 



140 "TO FOOL THE IGNORANT" 

Mathieu took back the necklace and stumbled out of the 
shop, cursing to himself. The bottom had dropped out of 
plans which he had carefully made that morning in the cafe. 
But Mathieu was a man of elastic spirits, and it was not his 
nature to remain despondent. Ten minutes later he was back 
on the Rue St. Antoine with the old smile on his lips. 

"This is a rare joke," thought he. " 'Good enough to fool 
the ignorant,' the old curmudgeon said. Well, well, I had 
a fine night of it, at least. It is not so bad after all, for did he 
not say it was worth twenty francs — just the amount I drank 
up. Hm, I might as well sell it now and get rid of the cursed 
thing." 

He walked briskly down the street and turned into the shop 
kept by M. Descartes. The jeweler was a short, stout man 
with red, puffy cheeks and shifting eyes. Some of the color 
seemed to leave his face when Mathieu entered, and the hand 
resting on the glass case trembled a little. 

" Good morning, M. Le Farge," he croaked in his hoarse voice. 
"It has been long since I had the pleasure of seeing you." 

"Ah, monsieur," replied Mathieu, "it is not every day that 
I can come to you on a matter of business." 

"Business?" repeated Descartes, starting. 

"In short," went on Mathieu, "what will you pay me for 
this?" He took the necklace from his pocket and tossed it 
on the counter. Descartes turned white and then red again, 
and his beady eyes seemed to look in every direction at once. 
"Devil take the man," thought Mathieu. "He, too, thinks 
I stole the baubles." He repeated the fib about the uncle 
in Toulouse. Descartes's eyes rested on his face for a moment; 
then he laughed nervously. 

"A legacy, eh? Ha, ha. Excellent, M. Le Farge. I com- 
prehend you now, yes, yes. Will you be satisfied with — let 
us say — a hundred francs? Come, now, that is quite reason- 
able for these glass beads, M. Le Farge." 



ERNEST L. MEYER 141 

"Hm," muttered Mathieu. "The man must be mad. But, 
surely, he ought to know his business — Yes, that is quite satis- 
factory," he said aloud, and added jestingly: "True, they are 
glass, but a clever imitation, I have been told. Good enough to 
fool the ignorant, eh, monsieur?" 

"Quite right, quite right," croaked the jeweler. "You are 
a man after my own heart. Perhaps, who knows, you may have 
other things to sell soon? But remember, monsieur, that I 
am a poor man. I can pay well, but I will not be bled." He 
leered into Mathieu's face while he counted out the money and 
his eyes gleamed evilly. 

Mathieu made haste to get out of the shop after pocketing 
the coins. "An odd fish," he ruminated. "Mad — or only 
drunk, perhaps. At any rate, he pays well." 

He walked rapidly down the street and in a few moments was 
back in the little kitchen of his home. The lamp and the food 
were still on the table, but his wife was not in the room. He 
stepped quietly across the floor and listened at the door of her 
chamber. 

"Still asleep," he muttered. "Poor Marie, how disappointed 
she will be. But still — a hundred francs is not to be sneezed 
at." 

He sat down at the table, for he was half famished. He had 
scarcely picked up his knife when his eyes fell on a sheet of paper 
that was lying near the lamp. He picked it up and read, 
and as he read his eyes widened with horror. 

"Mathieu," read the note, "it was cruel of you. 
I wish to God that you had killed me outright. I feared, 
the moment you called me, that you had found out my 
affair with Descartes; and when you showed me the 
necklace and mentioned his name, I knew that you lied 
and jested to torture me. That necklace — I lost the 
very day he gave' it to me and have spent hours and 
hours searching for it. Ah, Mathieu, had I not been 



142 "TO FOOL THE IGNORANT" 

such a vain woman, and you such a blind man, his bribes 

and promises would have meant nothing. Forgive me, 

if you can, and pray for my soul." 

With a terrible cry of rage and grief, Mathieu rose from 

his chair and almost flung himself against the bedroom door. 

The room was darkened. He pushed wide open the shutters 

and turned quickly about. His wife was lying in bed; her 

sightless eyes turned to the ceiling. On a table near the bed 

lay a little heap of gaudy jewels and rings and bracelets. The 

air was heavy with the odor of prussic acid. 



XI. WELLINGTON 1 

Charles Macomb Flandreau 

[Do you think that the initial suggestion, from which this story was de- 
veloped, lay in the peculiar facts brought out at the end, or did it he in the general 
idea of the death of a lonely student in a big university? The pathos of the 
situation of a lonely, friendless student in a big university is the commonplace idea 
which is rendered striking by the introduction of one peculiar circumstance. Notice 
that all that is most peculiar in this circumstance is imbedded in the closest 
observation of daily college life.] 

" If I'd only known sooner that you were coming, I could 
have asked some of the fellows round to meet you," said 
Haydock, politely. No matter how well you may know a 
woman, you are always apprehensive when she comes to 
Cambridge that she has a thirst for tea. 

"I think I like this better," his mother answered, stopping 
to look back. She was a lady of excellent taste, yet almost 
anyone must have preferred the Yard that Sunday afternoon. 
The riotous new green of early spring had matured to an 
academic sombreness that made the elms, the stretches of 
sun-flecked grass, the tremulous ivy, and the simple brick 
buildings inseparable in one's thoughts. The dignity of the 
great space between Grays and Holworthy had grown with 
the late afternoon shadows, and Haydock and his mother, 
who had sauntered from path to path, listening to the leaves, 
and the robins, and the quiet confidences of the wise bricks, 
talked of Harvard. Although the place was large and deserted 
at this hour, it was far from lonely. 

"Oh, yes, I like this much better," mused Mrs. Haydock 
again. Philip looked pleased. 

1 Reprinted from Harvard Episodes with the kind permission of Small, Maynard 
and Company, and of the author. 



144 WELLINGTON 

"It's always beautiful," he said; "and there's so much else," 
he added rather obscurely. But his mother seemed to know, for 
she looked at him after a moment and answered: 

"I often wonder if all women can understand it, — the other 
things, not just the beauty, — or if it 's only women with sons 
and brothers who come here." 

"Especially sons," smiled Philip, taking her hand and swing- 
ing it to and fro, as they strolled back again toward Holworthy. 

"But I never shall find out for sure," went on Mrs. Haydock; 
"because even the ones who do feel the place, just as if they 
had been here themselves, can't express it." 

"It's so dreadful to try," said Philip. Then after a moment, 
"I was thinking of all the horrible Class Poems and Odes and 
Baccalaureate Sermons and ghastly Memorial Day orators that 
are allowed to go on." 

"Oh, they probably don't do any harm," Mrs. Haydock 
interceded mildly. 

"No, not positive harm," her son admitted; "but neither 
would a lot of hurdy-gurdies in Apple ton Chapel." Once in a 
while Haydock was somewhat extreme. Just now his mother 
took occasion to remark on that fact. 

"No, really, I don't think I am," Philip protested. "What 
can they add to our feeling for Harvard with their trite mouth- 
ings about Veritas and Memorial Hall? Other places may need 
that sort of thing; this one doesn't. Most of us here recognise 
that fact, and conduct ourselves accordingly. And outsiders 
misunderstand the attitude; Eleanor, for example." Eleanor 
was a cousin with Yale affinities. "I had to snub Eleanor 
once for saying, before a lot of people, that whenever she wanted 
to flatter a Harvard man, she told him he was blase, and, if 
that didn't work, she called him a cynic, and if even that wouldn't 
bring him round, she hinted that he didn't believe in God." 

"Eleanor is a very clever, silly little girl," laughed Mrs. 
Haydock. 



CHARLES MACOMB FLANDREAU 145 

" Eleanor is excessively cheap at times," corrected Philip. 
"We're not 'cynical/ and we're not 'blase,' and whether or 
not we believe in God is nobody's business, If we don't drool 
about the things here we care for very much it's because people 
who do are indecent; they bore us." 

"They do bore one," assented Mrs. Haydock. 

"Once in a while some one does tear out his heart and drips it 
around the stage in Sanders Theatre for the benefit of all the 
tiresome old women in Cambridge, and the Glee Club drones 
Latin hymns to a shiny upright piano hired for the occasion, 
while the orator calms himself with ice-water from the bedroom 
pitcher that is always prominent on those occasions. But such 
performances, thank God, are rare." 

"Why do you go to them?" asked Mrs. Haydock. 

"I don't," said Philip. "That was when I was a freshman, 

and didn't know any better. Since then I have acquired 

'Harvard indifference,' " he added, smiling to himself. They 

' left the Yard, lingering a moment for another look down the 

leafy vista, and walked slowly across to Memorial. 

The beautiful transept was dark at first, after the sunlight 
outside. Then it lifted straight and high from the cool dusk 
into the quiet light of the stained windows. Except for the 
faint echo of their footsteps along the marble floor, the two 
moved from tablet to tablet in silence. Somewhere near the 
south door they stopped, and Philip said simply: 

"This one is Shaw's." 

When they passed on and out, and sat in the shade on the 
steps, Haydock's mother wiped her eyes. The long, silent 
roll-call always made her do that. 

"It was a great, great price to pay," she said at last. 

"I never knew how great," said Philip, "until I came here 
one day and tried to live it all over, as if it were happening 
now. Before then the war seemed fine, and historic, and all 
that, but ever so far away. It's been real since then. I thought 



146 WELLINGTON 

of how all the little groups of fellows would talk about it in the 
Yard between lectures, and read the morning papers while the 
lectures were going on; and how the instructors would hate to 
have to tell them not to. And I thought what it would be like 
to have the men I know — Alfred and Peter Bradley, and 
Sears Wolcott and Douglas and Billy and Pat, and all of them, 
getting restless and excited, and sitting up all night at the 
club, and then throwing down their books and marching away 
to the front to be shot; and how I would have to go along too, 
because — well, you couldn 't stay at home while they were 
being shot every day, and thrown into trenches. I don't think 
you ever realise it very much until you think about it that way." 

"It seems, now, so terrible that they had to go," Philip's 
mother broke in earnestly; "such a cruel stamping out of youth 
and strength and happiness at the very beginning." 

"But it isn't as if you felt it were all a hideous waste. It 
did something great; it's doing something now. It can never 
stop," Philip added, gently; "for every year the new ones 
come, — the ones who don 't know yet. It's the fellows who 
die here at college who always seem to me so thrown away, 
so wasted," he went on. "They don't seem to get their show, 
somehow, — like Wellington, for instance." 

"Did I meet Wellington?" asked Mrs. Haydock, trying to 
attach a personality to the name. She usually remembered 
Philip's friends. 

"Heavens, no!" answered Philip. "Nobody knew Welling- 
ton, except a few of us, — after he got pneumonia and died, 
which he did last February. He was in our class, and he must 
have been a nice fellow; his mother was very nice. But I'd 
never heard of him. It had just happened that way, — the 
way it does here." 

"Where did you know his mother?" asked Mrs. Haydock. 

"Why, I thought I'd written you all that. It must have 
been too long, or too dreary, or something," said Philip. 



CHARLES MACOMB FLANDREAU 147 

"No, you never told me." 

"Well, the first thing that I knew about Hugh Wellington 
was that he came from Chicago, or Cleveland, or some place; 
that 'his pleasant disposition was appreciated by all who knew 
him'; and that, incidentally, he was dead. I read that in 
the 'Crimson' one morning in bed, and I knew exactly what 
it meant; because when the ' Crimson' is reduced to the 'pleasant 
disposition' stage, there's a good reason why." 

Mrs. Haydock looked up inquiringly. 

"I mean, they can't find out anything; there's nothing to 
find out. He went his way quietly, — decently, I suppose, — 
without knowing any one in particular. No one seemed to know 
him, not even well enough to say that his disposition wasn't 
pleasant; so the 'Crimson' gave him the benefit of the doubt." 

"It's the least it could do for any dead man," said Mrs. 
Haydock. 

"And the most that could be done for poor Wellington, 
I suppose," added Philip, thoughtfully. "After that, I didn't 
think of him again — you don't, you know; among so many 
it's bound to happen pretty often — until somebody asked 
who he was, at luncheon. There were ten of us at the table, 
and Billy Fields was the only one who knew anything about 
him. He said that he sat next to a man named H. Wellington 
in some big history course, and liked the clothes he wore. I 
think he and Billy used to nod to each other in the Yard. Well, 
in the natural course of events, that would have been the end 
of him, as far as I was concerned, if Nate Lawrence — he 's 
the president of the class — hadn't dashed round to my room 
that afternoon to ask me what he'd better do. Nate's a bully 
chap, — a great, big clean sort of a child who breathes hard 
whenever he has to think of anything. He always wants to 
do the proper thing by the class and the college, and we help 
him out a good deal with resolutions and committees and 
impromptu speeches for athlete dinners, and all that. He 



148 WELLINGTON 

wanted me to sit right down and help him draw up some reso- 
lutions of sympathy and 'get it over with/ he said. After 
that he could call a class meeting, to which no one would come 
of course, and send the thing home immediately. I couldn't 
see any particular necessity for rushing the matter, except that 
Nate had it very much on his mind. It wasn't as if the man 
were alive and might die at any moment. So I told him he'd 
better wait awhile, and asked him if he knew anything about 
Wellington in the first place. He said, why, yes, of course — 
he remembered the name quite distinctly; Wellington had come 
out for the football in October, but had hurt his knee — no, 
come to think of it, it might have been his collar-bone — and 
had dropped out pretty soon. He was either the tall lad with 
the shoulders, or that wiry little man who might have made 
a good quarter-back if he'd stayed on. You see, Wellington 
must have been a mighty quiet sort of fellow, because Nate 
is a tremendously conscientious president. He can tell almost 
everybody apart. 

"I said, 'You simply have to get more details, if you want me 
to write the letter.' I'm pretty good at that kind of thing, but 
I like to have something to go by, naturally; it makes them easier 
— more spontaneous. Nate had been up to the Office; but 
I didn't find anything very available in what he's got there, 
so we looked up Wellington's address in the Index, and went 
round to his room that afternoon. He lived in a little house 
on Kirkland Street. 

"It was a perfectly fiendish day; you've never been here in 
February, have you? Well, that's the time to see dear old 
Cambridge. It snows and rains most of the day, and then 
stops to rest and melt a little. There aren't any sidewalks 
to speak of — just dirt paths with curbstones that keep the 
mud and stuff from running off into the street, so you have to 
walk in it up to your neck, if you want to get anywhere. That's 
what did Wellington up, I guess. 



CHARLES MACOMB FLANDREAU 149 

"The front door of his house was latched, and I was fumbling 
round under the crape trying to get hold of the bell, when the 
landlady appeared; you know — it makes me shudder now 
sometimes, when I think of that gruesome old buzzard of a 
woman. She was a typical Cambridge landlady, — one of 
those uncorseted, iron grey slatterns who lives in a rancid 
atmosphere of hot soap-suds and never goes to bed; a room- 
renting old spider who manages to break everything you own, 
in a listless sort of way, and then writes home to your father 
that you haven't paid your bill. This one belonged to the 
class that looks on death as a social opportunity. She was 
dressed for the occasion, and greeted each of us with a kind 
of a soiled smile that made her old face look like a piece of 
dishrag." 

" Philip dear." 

"Well, it did. And then she said in a loud, important 
whisper : 

" 'He isn't upstairs; he's in my parlor,' and took us in 
where poor Wellington was. It was all so dreadful, that part 
of it, that it didn't seem sad. There were three other bleary 
old funeral coaches, — more landladies, I suppose, — on a 
sofa on one side, and a girl with fuzzy, yellow, hair, in a rocking- 
chair, on the other; she was Mrs. Finley's daughter, I think. 
I've seen her round the Square since. There didn't seem to be 
much of anything for us to do; and Nate was awfully embar- 
rassed and uncomfortable, and seemed to fill up most of the 
space in the horrid plushy little room. But I didn't like to 
go away exactly, because it made our coming there at all seem 
so useless; so I said to Mrs. Finley, — I couldn't think of any- 
thing else, — 

" 'Have many of the fellows been in?' 

" 'No,' she whispered; 'nobody's been in but Mis' Taylor 
and Mis' Buckson and Mis' Myles. They come at two,' — 
it was then after five, — 'and the Regent. Mr. Wellington 



150 WELLINGTON 

was a real quiet young man. He didn't have much com- 
pany. He stayed in his room nights — mostly.' She stuck on 
'mostly' as a sort of afterthought, and repeated it; the old 
fool had a passion for accuracy of a vague, unimportant kind 
that almost drove me crazy. I asked her if anyone else roomed 
in the house. I knew he must have known them if there did ; 
no matter how objectionable people are at college, if they room 
near you, you can't help borrowing matches from them — 
I've made lots of acquaintances borrowing matches. But no 
one lived there except two law students, 'real nice gentlemen, 
real nice,' they were, and they weren't there very much. Nate 
asked her when the funeral was to be, which was the most sen- 
sible thing he could have done; for she took a telegram from 
her pocket, and said: 

" 'His mother's coming to-night. She was in New York 
State when he passed away. They wa'n't able to get her till 
this afternoon.' Then Nate and I left her, and I don't know 
why, — it wasn't idle curiosity, — but we went up to Wel- 
lington's rooms. 

"They were bully rooms. You can tell a lot about a man 
from his room here. Wellington had no end of really good 
things: rugs and books, — the Edinburgh Stevenson, and that 
edition of Balzac we have at home, — and ever so many Braun 
photographs — not the everyday ones, but portraits and things 
that you felt he'd picked up abroad, because he happened to 
like them. And on the table — he had a corking big oak 
table that rilled up one end of the room — his note-books and 
scratch block were lying open, just the way he'd left them when 
he stopped grinding for the exams. And there was a letter 
without a stamp, addressed to his mother, and a little picture 
of his mother, with 'For Hugo' written on the back. Then 
I got to thinking of his mother, and got her mixed up with 
you somehow or other. I don't know just how it was, but 
you seemed to change places; I couldn't see you apart for 



CHARLES MACOMB FLANDREAU 151 

any length of time, and I thought of you arriving at the Park 
Square station all alone, and trying to get a cab in the wet, 
and having to pay the man anything he asked you, until I was 
almost crying, and told Nate that some one ought to be there 
to meet you — Mrs. Wellington, I mean. Nate agreed with me, 
and began to look panicky, because he knew I meant him. 
He really ought to have gone — it was his place. But I knew 
how he felt. He kept insisting that I could do the thing much 
better than he could; and it ended by my getting a carriage at 
about eight or nine o'clock, and splashing into town. 

"There was a possibility, of course, that she wouldn't come 
alone, although she had been away from home, in New York, 
when he heard. But it never occurred to me that I could miss 
her if she did come alone, although I 'd never seen her, and felt 
sure she wouldn't have on black veils and things. You can't 
imagine all the different things I thought of to say to her while 
I was walking up and down the platform waiting for the train 
to come in. They all sounded so formal and sort of undertakery, 
that I knew I shouldn't say any of them when the time came. 
But I couldn't think of anything else — the one right one, 
I mean. 

"Well, she came on the first train she possibly could have 
come on after sending the telegram, and I knew her at once. 
She was the very last person to get out of the car. It wasn't 
that, or because she looked different — anybody else would 
have said she was very, very tired; but I just knew her, and 
before I could think of any of those other things, I took her 
travelling-bag and said, — 

" 'I'm one of Hugh's friends.' 

"I didn't see her when I said it, — only her hands, — 
because I was looking down at the bag." Hay dock paused a 
moment. 

"I think it was the right thing, dear — the only one," said 
his mother, softly. 



152 WELLINGTON 

"It's a long, long drive to Cambridge, even if you know where 
you are all the time. But with the windows all blurred, and 
nothing to mark the way except the rumble of the bridge or the 
car-tracks, or some bright light you know pretty well, that tells 
you you haven't gone nearly so far as you thought you had, 
it's terrible. We didn't say anything on the way. She 
leaned back in the corner; I think she was crying. Mrs. 
Finley — the landlady ■ — heard us coming, and had the door 
open when we got out; I made her go upstairs with me, and told 
her not to dare to go near that room and — and disturb them. 
She's just the sort of a woman who would. It was almost mid- 
night then, and I sat there until after two. I tried to grind for 
a Fine Arts' examination out of one of Wellington's books — 
he must have been taking the same course — until the door 
downstairs opened and closed, and I heard Mrs. Wellington 
come slowly up the steps. I put the book on the mantelpiece; 
it seemed heartless to be reading there by his fire when she 
came in. 

" She was a very brave woman, I think — brave and civilised. 
She walked slowly round the room, sort of touching things here 
and there; and she stopped a long time at the table, and put 
her hand on the note-books gently, as if she were stroking 
them, and then closed them." 

"Did she find the letter?" asked Mrs. Haydock. 

"No, I gave that to her later on — I had it in my pocket then. 
I didn't want her to find it herself; it always makes you jump 
so to see your own name written out, when you're not looking 
for it. Then she sat down in a chair near me and stared at the 
fire. I asked her if she wanted me to go away; and she said, no, 
she was glad I was there. We talked a little — I couldn 't 
say much; my position was queer you know — not what she 
thought it was. But it didn't seem wrong as long as I stayed 
just because she wanted me to, and I hated to spoil it by saying 
things that couldn't ring true. She talked about Hugh in 



CHARLES MACOMB FLANDREAU 153 

such a quiet, wonderful way that every now and then I found 
myself wondering if she really knew. Sometimes she doubted 
it herself, I think, for she left me twice and went slowly down- 
stairs as if she wanted to make sure. When daylight came, 
she went in and lay down on his bed. I put out the lamps and 
wrote a note saying where my room was if she wanted to send 
for me. 

"At breakfast I got hold of Bradley and Sears Wolcott and 
Billy and four or five other fellows, and told them they simply 
had to go round there at noon, and that some of them would have 
to go into the station with me. They didn't see any particular 
reason for it at first; most of them were grinding for the exams, 
and Sears had an engagement to play court tennis and lunch 
at the B. A. A. He said he didn't see why the man's friends 
weren't enough without dragging out a lot of heelers who'd 
never heard of him, let alone never having met him. He 
wasn't 'going to be any damned hired crocodile!' he said. 
You see, they couldn't understand that if they didn't go, 
there probably wouldn't be anybody there but the preacher 
and Mrs. Finley, and those horrible men with the black satin 
ties and cotton gloves who carry you in and out when there's 
no one else round to do it. But they all came at last — even 
Sears, grumbling till he got inside the gate. Nate brought three 
or four fellows round from his club, and an armful of red and 
white roses 'from the class,' he told Mrs. Wellington. It was 
a nice little He. I was surprised that Natey thought of it. 
The Regent came, and Mr. Barrows, the college secretary, 
and poor old Miss Shedd, Wellington's washwoman. She was 
awfully cut up, poor old thing, and made it as bad as possible 
for everybody. That was about all, I think. Plummer, the 
college preacher, was simple and manly; Heaven knows he 
couldn't very well have been anything else under the cir- 
cumstances. And then we had that interminable drive again, 
back to Boston. 



154 WELLINGTON 

"I was in the carriage with Mrs. Wellington. Any of us 
could have gone with her just as well, I suppose, because we were 
all Hugh's friends, although I was the only one who knew that 
we were. But I wanted to ride with her somehow, and I'm 
glad now that I did, for a very queer thing happened; I've 
never quite understood it. She didn't say anything for ever 
so long, not until we got across the bridge and the carriage began 
to go slower. Then she put one of her hands on mine and said : 

" 'I didn't know at first that you were Haydock, not until 
I found your note. I'm very, very glad to know, because 
Hugh used to talk more about you in his letters and when he 
was at home than he did about any of the others. I think he 
looked up to you most of all,' and she told me some of the 
things he had said and written." 

Haydock often wondered if repeating things to your mother 
that you wouldn't repeat to anyone else, made up for the things 
you couldn't tell her at all. This passed through his mind now. 

"I'm afraid it's just as well I never met "Wellington," he 
added. "Well, there wasn't much else. When we got to the 
station, I left Nate and the others to attend to things, and went 
into the car with Mrs. Wellington. She had the stateroom, — 
I'd got that for her when I went in town in the morning, — 
and there wasn't anything to do but give her her ticket, and 
say good-bye. I had a feeling as if I ought to go on with her and 
see the thing through; but I'd cut one examination already — 
I managed to flunk two more — and she probably wouldn 't 
have let me anyhow. I did hunt up the conductor and give 
him the other ticket, — you have to have two, you know, — 
and told him to take care of it, and not let her see it; it had a 
grisly word scribbled across it. She smiled when she said good- 
bye — oh, so sadly." 

Haydock stood up and stretched himself. 

"Did you ever hear from her again?" asked Mrs. Haydock. 

"Oh, yes, I had a letter very soon. I had all his books and 



CHARLES MACOMB FLANDRkAU 155 

furniture and stuff packed up and sent home, you know. She 
told me to keep anything I wanted, because — oh, I '11 show 
you the letter some day. I kept the picture with 'For Hugo' 
written on the back. It's over in my room." He went down 
the steps, Mrs. Haydock following. They walked along the 
Delta, past John Harvard, and across to one of the paths in 
the Yard once more, sprinkled now with men hurrying to 
Memorial. 

"It was such a queer waste, his having lived and come here 
at all," mused Philip. "I suppose that sounds awfully kiddish 
and tiresome to you, doesn't it?" he asked more lightly, looking 
at his mother. 

"No," she answered; "it sounded very old the way you 
said it." 



XIL LEFT BEHIND 1 
Arthur Ruhl 

Everybody in the house — in all the world it seemed — 
was sleeping, but the Vandalia Miler sat up in bed, staring 
with dry, wide-open eyes at the wall. The dormer room, 
tucked up under the roof, was stuffy and close and smelled of 
heat and wall-paper and rag-carpet. Through the little win- 
dow, from the trees and grass outside, came the steady whirring 
of the tree-toads and crickets. Suddenly the stillness was 
broken and the campus clock tolled two. As the harsh note 
grated on his nerves his heart gave a thump and he threw 
himself back and buried his face in the hot pillow. It seemed 
as though he must shut out the world and forget. But he 
couldn't forget, and you can shut out the world with a pillow — 
only so long as you can hold your breath. He slipped over the 
edge of the bed — that ridiculous, high, hot feather-bed — and 
with his chin in his hands and his elbows on his knees, blinked 
at the little windows and the patch of moonlight on the floor 
where the Other Man lay sleeping. And as he watched him, 
snoring there comfortably in his sleep, his own secret returned 
again and bit into him, as it had returned so many times that 
day and night, and all the disappointment and bitterness and 
despair of it. And he felt that life had tricked him, cut him 
off in the flower of his youth and put him on the outside, and he 
was an outcast with his hand raised against the world. 

When they had arrived that night, with a lot of the other 
teams that had come down for the interscholastics, and had 
been assigned to that one remaining vacant room, the Other 

1 Reprinted from Break in Training and Other Athletic Stories, with the kind 
permission of the author and of the Outing Publishing Company. 



ARTHUR RUHL 157 

Man had told him to go ahead and take the bed, because, as he 
explained, a miler needed all the sleep he could get, whereas 
a bit of wakefulness the night before the games only served to 
put an edge on the sprinter's nerves. "It'll make me start 
quicker," said he, spreading a blanket on the floor. That 
was just like the luck of the Other Man — to give up something 
and after all to get it back again. And the Vandalia Miler 
blinked at him, and thought and thought, and wondered whether 
the Other Man would make the 'varsity in his freshman year. 
For the Other Man was going away to college and the Vandalia 
Miler couldn't go. That was his secret, which had been his 
for only a day, and which he was somehow too proud to tell. 
That was why he believed that he was an outcast, a pariah — 
why a shivery abyss yawned between these two old friends, 
though you might have thought that it was but a yard or two 
of rag carpet that separated him, sitting there on the edge of the 
bed, from the Other Man, sleeping in his blanket on the floor. 
They had grown up in Vandalia, in that little prairie town, 
from the beginning; gone swimming together and skated and 
rung door-bells, gone through the grammar-school and into 
the high-school, and then, when most of the town boys were 
dropping out to go to work and the ones who were going to col- 
lege went away to prep, school they had decided to stick by 
the ship. They would stick by their town as long as they could, 
but when they had to leave they were going, not to one of the 
State universities, not to Chicago, but down into, the distant 
and glittering East. One didn't go down East to college from 
the Vandalia High-School. They were about the only men 
left in the class after their sophomore year; the rest were girls 
— the girls they had grown up with and written notes to and 
divided their apples and candy with, back in the kid days. 
Once there had been a cane-rush — somebody had read about 
one in a book — and two legs and an arm were broken and one 
boy nearly killed. The girls were ordered to keep out. They 



158 LEFT BEHIND 

jumped in, carried water, bandaged black eyes with their hand- 
kerchiefs, freshman girls untied the freshmen as fast as the 
sophomores tied them up — that's the sort of girls they were. 
And he and the Other Man were the only men in the class and 
going down East to college afterward. Probably you do not 
understand just what that meant. You may know, perhaps, 
some little high church prep, school, built on the top of a hill 
like a robber baron's castle, where there are just about enough 
men to make up the teams if each man plays on all of them, 
and the man who is captain of the eleven is generally captain 
of the nine and the track team and leads the banjo club. If 
you were chosen captain of the eleven in your freshman year, 
you would, of course, be a much greater man than the President. 
But you wouldn't have a lot of good-fellow girls to tell you so. 
And the Vandalia Miler had both — he and the Other Man. 

They turned out the only decent eleven the school had ever 
had and a nine and a paper, and all the rest of it, and divided 
everything — just as though it was a Trust. One of them would 
write the editorials calling down the faculty and the other 
would preside at the mass meetings; he would lead the mandolin 
club, with about six yards of satin ribbon which one of the girls 
had given him tied to his mandolin to show that he was leader, 
and the Other Man would lead the glee club and sing all the 
tenor solos. And at last, in their senior year, they got up a 
track team. It was the last chance they had — after June the 
deluge. They sent to Chicago for real running clothes and 
spiked shoes — it had been sneakers and trousers cut off at the 
knees before that in Vandalia — and taught the school a brand 
new cheer. The merchants put up the money to send the team 
down to Pardeeville, and the night before they left there was 
a mass meeting and a dance and speeches. The Vandalia 
Miler, blinking at the torn mosquito-bar that covered the 
little window, smiled grimly as he thought of that speech — 
of that droll school orator of theirs, older than the rest of them, 



ARTHUR RUHL 159 

with his high forehead and Henry Clay scalp lock, and his arms 
outspread and his voice in his boots: "With every heart in 
Vandalia beating for you, every eye turned down the prairie 
toward the South, you go — to run for Vandalia, to win for 
Vandalia, and if not to win, to fight to the last ditch for the 
purple ' V ' upon your breasts !" And he and the Other Man had 
gone home together on air, and told each other how they were 
going to make the team when they got down to college and 
show those effete Easterners what it meant to meet a real man 
and — and there was a light in the library window when he 
got home, past midnight though it was, and his father was in 
there locked up with his lawyer. Something had happened. 
It wouldn't be announced for a day or two, but everything had 
gone to smash, and it meant that the Vandalia Miler must stay 
behind and go to work in the hardware store. He didn't sleep 
much that night, and he went down to the train the next day 
as late as he could and slipped on when nobody would see him, 
while the girls were singing and waving flags from the station 
platform and the rest of the men were leaning out of the win- 
dows and laughing and waving their hats. And here he was — ■ 
where he had longed to be — sent down on the team to run for 
his school and his town, and it all seemed like something in a 
pantomime, outside of him and far away, unreal and part of 
a horrid dream. But he had to run. It came back just as it 
did every minute or two, like a quick pain. He went hot all 
over. Those others, who were going to fight it out with him, 
were all sleeping now, just like the Other Man. He must hang 
on to himself — get some sleep. He gritted his teeth, squeezed 
his fists, and told himself that after all they were kids and he 
was now a real man. There are a number of things — he would 
begin very sternly — more important than going to college, and 
a 'varsity initial won't help you much before a judge and jury 
or patch up anybody's broken bones or tell how the market's 
going, but — and here he slipped and raced away again — but 



160 LEFT BEHIND 

no more will a Victoria Cross nor a rag from the captured 
colors. And just as long — just as long as there are men in 
the world with hearts under their coats and blood in their veins 
there'll be somebody to work the last gun and to head the 
forlorn hope and fling a life away for a smile or a cheer or a bit 
of ribbon. And it doesn't make any difference whether he's 
got on a cuirassier's breast-plate or football canvas, a running 
suit or khaki. And when the others are ready to go and the 

band begins to play, it isn 't any fun to be left behind and 

He got sorrier and sorrier for himself, which is a very, very bad 
thing for a very young man to do, until at last he flung himself 
back on the bed, and with his head full of charging cavalry, 
photographs of 'varsity teams, batteries galloping into action, 
and lonely outcasts left behind, he finally dropped asleep, 
just as the night was graying and the birds were beginning to 
chirp in the trees outside. For just a minute he forgot, and 
then somebody shook him and he saw the Other Man was 
standing over him, fresh as paint. 

"Gee, man!" he laughed; " you look dead as a smelt ! Don't 
mean you stayed awake with all that bed to range about in!" 
"Oh, no," said the Vandalia Miler; "I slept all right." 
He ran very well in spite of everything. Had he had a bit 
more experience in racing, he would have tried sooner to get 
within striking distance of the leaders. As it was, coming 
round the upper turn into the stretch, he sprinted past the 
fifth and fourth men and lost his feet and fell, completely run 
out, just as he was being beaten for third place about seven 
feet short of the tape. It was one of those races of which the 
spectator always may remark that if the man had had a bit 
more sand he would have won. The Other Man had already 
won his brilliant victory in the hundred when the Vandalia 
Miler was beaten. A lot of people were congratulating him 
and the trainer of one of the State universities had just promised 
him board and tuition if he would enter there that fall as the 



ARTHUR RUHL 161 

Miler staggered over the line. The Other Man said things 
to the trainer and told him that he'd mistaken his man. 

"Where we're going," and he smiled at the Vandalia Miler 
as he helped him to the dressing-room, "they don't have pro- 
fessionals on the team!" The Vandalia Miler didn't say 
anything — you can't say much just after you Ve run yourself 
out in a mile race — but just as soon as he could, he pulled 
on his clothes. He was special correspondent for the Vandalia 
Blade. They had made him feel very proud and important 
a couple of days before when they had asked him to "rush in 
a thousand words after the games, just as soon as he could jump 
on a wire." So he dragged himself over to the railroad station 
and jumped on the wire. It was not what you would call a 
creative mood. But he sent the story. By biting his lip and 
stopping every little while he told all about it, while little 
black spots chased each other up the paper, and the rest who had 
been beaten were coming to and the Other Man was making 
friends with the prep-school stars and promising to look them 
up when he got down East. 

When the story was off the wire he went back to the boarding- 
house and lay down on the tall feather-bed. He was still there 
when the Other Man came up to dress for the dance that was 
to be given for the visiting teams that night in the college gym. 
The Other Man began early because, with only a little wavy 
mirror and a smelly kerosene lamp, a wet hair-brush, and a 
straight stand-up collar about as high as a cuff, it takes one quite 
a while to make one's self look like a Gibson man. The Other 
Man spatted down his hair in the light of the little lamp and 
whistled between his teeth; the Vandalia Miler lay on the 
feather-bed staring at the whitewashed ceiling and thinking. 
He couldn't ask the belle of the ball down to the football game 
next autumn; he couldn't promise to send back a college pin 
for a red satin pillow with a white initial on it and bet boxes 
of Huyler's on sure things with all the girls who wanted to lose 



1 62 LEFT BEHIND 

and make tobacco-pouches for him. He couldn't put on any 
dog at all. It was back to the tall grass for him. 

''Better hurry up and get ready," said the Other Man, 
puffing over his tie. 

"Don't think I'll go," said the Vandalia Miler. He mum- 
bled something about having a headache and feeling pretty 
dopy. "What's the sport, anyway," he added, "meeting a 
lot of girls you're never going to see again?" He was, you see, 
in a pretty bad way. The Other Man turned round and stared. 
Then he laughed. Such remarks were not worth a reply. 

"See you there!" he chirped presently. Then, with his trou- 
sers turned up an extra reef and his straw hat stuck on one side 
— all very rakish and kinky — he blew out and down the stairs, 
three steps at a time. The Vandalia Miler thought some more. 
After a while he got up, stretched, and rubbed his eyes. Then 
he jammed his running clothes into his suit-case — they weren't 
going to be much use to him any more — and started for the 
station. Everybody in Pardeeville was going to the dance. 
On the front porches in the light of the hall lamps he could see 
the girls slipping their light scarfs over their shoulders, and 
now and then far down a cross street catch the glimmer of 
white through the trees. The sidewalk was narrow, with a 
picket-fence on one side and big elms on the other, and every 
little while he and his suit-case would have to flatten up against 
the fence while a couple passed him, with low words, perhaps, 
that he couldn't hear, and a ripple of laughter, white dresses — 
whiter in the dark — and a breath of perfume in the air after 
they had gone. The station was deserted and silent as the tomb. 
The only sign of life was the lamp shining through the window 
and the sleepy telegraph operator nodding over his key. The 
Vandalia Miler chucked his suit-case against the wall and 
began tramping up and down, counting the number of steps 
from one end of the platform to the other. After a long while, 
he went over to the little grocery across the street, bought 



ARTHUR RUHL 163 

a box of "sweet caps" and smoked them relentlessly, one after 
another, inhaling the last two or three, to convince himself that 
he was hardened to all things and didn't care. Really, though, 
things were getting more and more on his nerves, and he did 
care. Hours, it seemed, dragged away. He sat on the baggage- 
truck, trying not to listen. It was clear moonlight, still, and 
clear as a bell. The gym where they were dancing was only a 
few blocks away, behind the trees, and on the other side of the 
track was open prairie. There wasn't a sound there on the 
station platform except the clicking of the telegraph key, and 
he could hear the faint music of the violins and the toot-toot 
of the cornet coming over the trees. 

It was after midnight when the train thundered in. He was 
in his seat, with his hat pulled down over his eyes, when the 
rest came down the street on the run and the Other Man, 
panting and excited, bounced into the seat beside him. The 
Other Man had to tell about it, whether anyone listened or not 
— what she said and he said, and how she cut her dances right 
and left to sit 'em out with him and came down to within half 
a block of the station to see him off. And then there was a 
waltz that the Other Man wasn't ever going to forget — "the 
finest waltz I ever hope to hear, and that's a fact." The 
Vandalia Miler stood it for a long time. Once he sat up sud- 
denly and jammed on his hat. 

"For heaven's sake iorget it!" he said. "Aren't you ever 
going to get over being a kid?" The Vandalia Miler, you see, 
had had to get over being a kid in twenty-four hours, and it 
didn't come so easy. 

" Whatever 's wrong with you?" laughed the Other Man. 
"Never saw anybody so peevish in my life!" And he began 
to whistle the tune harder than ever. 

The train was a milk-train. It stopped at every cross-roads. 
It was stirlingly hot and smelly in the car, and the Other Man 
kept on humming, steadily as a pianola, and keeping time by 



1 64 LEFT BEHIND 

snapping his fingers, but for all that, the Vandalia Miler finally 
dropped asleep. He dreamed that he was down East, after 
all, and winning the mile, down a track about like a sublimated 
skating-rink, with an audience of a billion or two people, rising 
to him from a sort of stadium made of pure white marble and 
gold. He was just being heaved up in the air by the frantic 
populace when he woke up. And the Other Man was shaking 
him by the arm and telling him that they were back in Vandalia. 
He didn't need anyone to tell him that. It was growing light 
as they stepped off the train. He was just blinking his eyes 
open and seeing the old station and the lumber-yard and the 
Waldorf Cafe, and everything inside him seemed to be caving 
in, when the Other Man, still up in the air and keen as a mink, 
began to bray out his everlasting waltz. The Vandalia Miler 
jumped as though you had shot off a revolver just behind his 
ear. He whirled round and almost yelled: 

"For heaven's sake, man, shut up!" The Other Man looked 
at him and laughed. 

"I don't see what license you've got to be so all-fired grouchy," 
he said. "If you'd won — " 

"Well?" cried the Vandalia Miler, stepping closer. 

"It looked to me — " 

"Looked to you! Are you calling me a quitter?" 

You must remember that it had lasted two whole days and 
nights now and the ends of his nerves were all sticking out. 

"Say it, will you?" He dropped his suit-case on the side- 
walk and clenched his fists. "Just say it now — how did it 
look to you?" And then, before anyone guessed what was 
coming, he shot out with his fist. The Other Man's hands were 
down, helpless. He caught it fairly on the tip of the jaw and 
went down in a heap, and the Vandalia Miler stood over him, 
half waiting to swing again, half scared at what he had done. 
The others rushed in to pull them apart, but the Other Man 
just jumped up with a grim little laugh, as though it was all 



ARTHUR RUHL 165 

a sort of joke and the Vandalia Miler a kind of wild man with 
bad manners. Then he walked ahead with the rest. All in 
all, it was about the completest thing he could have done. 
It left the Vandalia Miler, you see, quite on the outside. And 
that was the end of Damon and Pythias — and all their plans 
and dreams. The next day the Other Man went down East 
to tutor for his entrance exams. The Vandalia Miler went to 
work in the hardware store, selling frying-pans and shingle 
nails. . . . 

The Vandalia Miler left the store in charge of the repair- 
shop man and started home for supper. He had just sold an 
improved gasoline stove to a farmer's wife from Vienna Centre 
who had never burned anything but wood, and he was consider- 
ably excited. He swung up State Street, whistling. There 
was a bulletin in the Blade window with letters in blue ink 
splashed on it a foot high. This is what he read — what 
stopped his whistling short: 

TRIUMPH OF VANDALIA BOY 

Underneath was a dispatch with a New York date-line, 
telling how the Other Man had won the intercollegiate mile at 
Mott Haven that afternoon. He felt his face getting hot. 
He put his hands in his pockets and squeezed his finger-nails 
into his palms so that folks wouldn't see. There was a beautiful 
picture framed up in his mind — a picture built up of Sunday 
supplements, stories in magazines, and the imagination of a 
young man who had never seen Mott Haven, and who stood 
on a wooden sidewalk on the main street of a fresh-water town 
a thousand miles away. It was a sort of composite of Henley and 
a Thanksgiving game, and the Other Man stood in the fore- 
ground in the afternoon sunshine, panting easily and smiling 
politely at the applause. In the two years that the Other 
Man had been away he hadn't come back even for his vacations, 
and he was getting to be a we-used-to-know-him-when-he-was- 



1 66 LEFT BEHIND 

young sort of a man. There had been many stories about him 
in the Blade. News was rather scarce out there, and they liked 
to hear about each other. And every time the Other Man did 
anything the town people felt somehow that Vandalia had done 
it and were glad. There was considerable local pride in Vandalia. 
They would do anything for anybody who did something for 
the town. But the Vandalia Miler hadn't learned this yet. 

He got away without being obliged to talk to anybody, 
and hurried home. There, without knowing just why, he 
unearthed his old running clothes, and just as the sun was set- 
ting that evening the Vandalia Miler started jogging round the 
old dirt track at the fair grounds, training again for the mile. 

They didn 't go in very heavily for sport in those days in 
Vandalia, and everybody soon knew what he was doing and 
wondered why. The high-school boys came over late after- 
noons and watched him run. Then they got to pacing him, 
and finally they asked him to help them get up a team to lick 
Sugar River. Sugar River was a town about twenty miles 
north of Vandalia. The only difference between the two towns 
to an outsider was that the one had an opera-house and a 
six-story hotel, and the other had ten blocks of brick paving. 
A football game between Vandalia and Sugar River would have 
made the '94 Springfield game look like an international peace 
congress or a vegetarian breakfast. The Vandalia Miler helped 
them with the team. He didn't know, of course, that it was 
about the most important thing he'd ever done in his life and 
he was thinking too much of himself and the Other Man to be 
very much interested. But he did it as well as he knew how. 
Sugar River annihilated them. They lost every point. It 
didn't especially increase Vandalia's love for Sugar River. 

The Vandalia Miler was embarrassed, but he kept up his own 
running, not training enough to get tired of it. Some days he 
took a lot of little sprints, some a jog of five miles or so, some a 
rest or a bit of tennis, but no smoking, and all the time plenty 



ARTHUR RUHL 167 

of sleep. Sometimes he'd try it at sun-up, before the rest of 
the town was awake, just to test his steam and press himself 
a bit; and sometimes, on moonlight nights, when he could see 
the track plain as day, he'd go over after dark and whirl off 
his mile at top speed, stripped to the buff — racing through 
the moonlight with the cool night smell coming up from the 
grass and the cool wind blowing on him all over. Those were 
the times when he even forgot the Other Man. It seemed as 
though he was tireless, eating up the distance like a ghost with 
a feeling all the time of I've-done-this-before-in-the-dawn-of- 
things-a-million-years-ago. The next day, when he was back 
in the hardware store, he would smile inside at ordinary folks 
plodding about in their foolish store-clothes. The point is, 
you see, he began to run for the fun of running. It was the only 
thing he'd had for company since the Other Man went away. 
By the time summer was over he was brown as an Indian and 
hard as nails and he could run like a broncho. 

In August, in Vandalia, came the Clearwater County fair. 
It was the biggest fair in the State — more people, bigger 
pumpkins, fatter hogs, taller corn, more balloons and bands 
and red lemonade and noise. The fair grounds began to fill 
up with red thrashing-machines and candy booths and side- 
show tents — not the place for a young man who preferred to 
be alone. On the afternoon of Wednesday, the third day of 
the fair, the Vandalia Miler stopped at the corner drug-store 
for a drink of soda-water, on his way home. He was just 
swallowing a glass of Arctic Mist and recalling that a preparation 
known as Lemo Kolo had tasted just like it a year ago, when out 
through the window, over the colored-water jars, he saw the 
Other Man, home again after his triumphs in the vast and 
glittering East, togged out in a set of very tricky flannels and 
blowing along State Street, bowing right and left, and beaming 
like a fresh-plucked rose for joy at getting home. You might 
just as well have flashed a search-light in his eyes at ten paces. 



1 68 LEFT BEHIND 

He was all in. The two years that had passed rolled up like a 
patent window-shade when the spring slips, and he was back 
at the railroad station, just home from Pardeeville, watching the 
Other Man walk away through the melancholy dawn. He saw 
him pushing open the screen, and he braced himself for an in- 
stant to face it out, cold and rather haughtily. Then he flung 
a dime on the counter and red as fire hurried out the side door. 

That night the Blade published a long program for Thursday, 
the big day at the fair. There was to be a special excursion 
from Sugar River, a free-for-all trot and a two-fifteen pace, 
the McHenry Zouaves, the Diving Horse, a fat ladies' potato 
race, Pavella the King of Tight Wire, and — "an open mile 
foot-race for the championship of the world." That was the 
way the Blade put it. They could always be trusted in such 
cases to do the right thing. Of course it was the Other Man's 
crowd who had conceived the idea of the race. He had brought 
some of his friends home with him from the East to show them 
what the West was like, and they had thought it would be good 
sport to make him trot out and perform for the girls and the 
merry villagers. "For the championship of the world," said the 
Blade. "That this is no mere jest is evidenced by the fact that 
first among the list of entries appears the name of our famous 
young townsman, the present inter-collegiate champion. He 
informed a representative of the Blade this afternoon that he 
had kept up his training for just such a contingency as this, 
and that he never was in finer fettle. The scribe found him at 
his home, 'The Elms,' on the beautiful estate north of the city, 
where he is entertaining a number of wealthy young society 
men from Eastern bon-ton circles, and found him as modest 
as he was when he left his native town two years ago. He 
said that nothing would please him more than to run at the 
fair-grounds' track. Tor it was there,' said he, 'that I won 
my first race, you know!' " 

"Oh, hell!" said the Vandalia Miler. And then he called up 



ARTHUR RUHL 169 

the superintendent's office at the fair grounds and told them to 
enter him for the mile. . . . 

There was, in the first place, a piping hot August afternoon, 
the kind that they have out in the corn belt, when not a drop 
of rain has fallen for a couple of months and the leaves are dry- 
ing up on the trees and the grass is yellow and crackly under 
foot, and the dust follows after the farmer's wagons like smoke. 
Then, inside a high board fence, was the fair ground, with big 
wooden halls here and there, oak-trees with locusts singing away 
in the branches, and packed full of people and prize cattle and 
pumpkins and lunch-boxes and chewing candy and noise. 
There were farmers in their store-clothes just in from thrashing 
and farmers' girls in white dresses with pink and baby-blue 
ribbons, and in between children with sticky popcorn and red 
balloons and squawkers. There was a "natural amphitheatre" 
with benches running along the side hill, where the hushed 
crowd gaped at the spell-binder waving his arms beside the ice- 
water pitcher. There were prize pig pens and sheep pens, the 
art hall with its pictures of peaches tumbling out of baskets 
and watermelons just opened with the knife lying beside them, 
and the tents where Diavolo ate grass and blew fire out of 
his mouth and the beautiful young lady stood out on a platform 
by the ticket-box, in faded pink tights, with a big wet snake 
wound around her throat and her spangles blinking in the 
sunshine. There were sample windmills and cane-ringing 
games, and wherever there was room a man shaking popcorn 
or pulling candy over a hook, or a damp little shed smelling of 
vanilla, where people were eating ice cream and drinking red 
lemonade. You get all that and lots more going at once, with 
the barkers yelling and the merry-go-round organs squealing 
away, with the sun blazing at ninety-four in the shade 
and everywhere the smell of hot people and clothes and 
stale perfume, of lemonade and popcorn and peanuts and 
dust and trampled grass — you take all that, draw a third- 



170 LEFT BEHIND 

of-a-mile circle through the thick of it, push the crowd back a 
bit, and you have the Vandalia track that day as the engine 
bell in the judges' stand tolled out the warning signal and the 
old marshal on his white circus horse rode down the track 
sidewise, bellowing out the "mile foot race fer the champeen- 
ship of the world!" 

As he caught the sharp command of the bell — the same bell 
that for years and years had called up the trotting horses from 
the stables — the Vandalia Miler jumped out of his blanket 
in the Tight-Wire Man's tent and pushed through the crowd 
to the mark. The farmer girls giggled as they saw his bare 
legs and a train of small boys followed him, gaping solemnly 
in the manner of those determined to see just how it was done. 
The Vandalia Miler was very pale. As he took his place on 
the starting line he was the only one there ready to run. He 
stared straight ahead at the people edging up closer to the little 
lane that was left for them to run through, licked his dry lips 
and rubbed nervously his bare left arm. There they were, the 
farmers and the townspeople, the men and the girls that he and 
the Other Man had grown up with and gone to school with. 
And he felt that if he could beat him — so slim and smiling 
and sure — beat him in Vandalia, there and then, with Vandalia 
and the county and the old crowd looking on — The engine- 
bell clanged again peremptorily. 

"Coming! Coming!" Somebody was shouting uproariously 
over the heads of the crowd. A big tan buckboard drove in 
between the surreys and lumber-wagons, and out hopped the 
Other Man, all wrapped up in a great plaid ulster, his bare 
ankles showing underneath it. He threw off his coat and stood 
there laughing and shaking hands with his friends — in his 
'varsity running clothes, the crimson ribbon across his chest. 
The Vandalia Miler saw him and gripped his fingers tight. 
It seemed to him that the crowd suddenly became still; the 
uproar of the squawkers and carousel-organ sounded vague and 



ARTHUR RUHL 171 

far away. At the same moment there was a stir in the crowd 
just under the stand, and a big, tow-headed chap began to pull 
off his overalls and shirt. "Hey, there!" he called up to the 
starters; "I want to get in this!" The crowd began to laugh 
good-naturedly, but the Vandalia Miler didn't laugh at all. 
He was trying to remember where he had seen this farmer's 
face. On the sleeveless jersey which the tow-headed man 
wore underneath his flannel shirt was a spot cleaner than the 
rest. It was where an initial had been torn away. He turned 
to find the Other Man in front of him, smiling and holding out 
his hand. He took it, scarcely knowing what he did. 

"So we're going to have it out, right here and now," laughed 
the Other Man, looking him straight in the eyes. 

"Yes," said the Vandalia Miler. His mouth was all cotton, 
so it came in a quick sort of whisper. "Yes," he repeated. 

"I hope," began the Other Man, and then he paused and 
grinned a little and blushed. "It's been quite a while — I 
hope — " All at once some one cried — "Now, ready!" 
The crowd that had apparently been pushing and shoving 
aimlessly about the judges' stand closed into a compact mass 
and out came a yell — one of those old-fashioned, wild-Indian, 
give-'em-the-axe, and all that sort of thing yells, with Sugar 
River at the end. "Sugar River — Sugar River — Sugar 
River!" three times, like that. It was like marching into the 
middle of an Irish picnic with a brass band playing "Boyne 
Water." A hoot and a howl came back from all along the 
track and the crowd — all Vandalia, it seemed — began to 
stampede in toward the judges' stand. The Vandalia Miler 
grabbed a couple of handfuls of long grass from the turf at the 
side of the track and wadded them up in his hands for "corks." 
His face wasn't as pale now and a new look jumped into his 
eyes. He turned to the Other Man, yelling above the uproar 
of the crowd. 

"You want to look out for him: He's a ringer, and he's run- 



172 LEFT BEHIND 

ning for Sugar River!" And in the thick of the noise and the 
pushing and the dust, the starter swung his hat downward and 
with the single cry of "Go!" sent the three runners away. 

The Other Man cut across from the outside like a flash and 
took the pole. The Vandalia Miler closed in behind, tight on 
his heels, eyes hooked to his back, just below the shoulders. 
The tow-headed man trailed the two, big-boned and heavy, 
but striding long and strong as a horse. Into the crowd they 
went — a sort of curving chute, walled in by faces and clothes 
smelling of popcorn and dust, and a baking sun beating down 
from overhead — like three machines, stride and stride alike, 
the Other Man leading the way like a race-horse, strong and 
confident, as if he were only playing with the game. Out into 
the open and the cooler air of the back-stretch they swung, 
past the red thrashers and pig pens, round the lower turn, 
and toward the judges' stand again. They were going like a 
three-horse tandem, the Vandalia Miler so close up that the dirt 
from the Other Man's spikes splashed his shins. He could see 
indistinctly the crowd still jostling and shouting under the 
wire, see the lobster-red face and white mustache of old Skerritt, 
the starter, leaning out on the rail of the judges' stand toward 
them and bellowing through his hands something about beating 
out Sugar River. He felt the mass open up and close in after 
them, the suffocating walled-in chute growing hotter and heavier, 
the pull of the second quarter beginning to drag hard on his legs 
and wind, and at the time he saw plainly that the Other Man 
was, if anything, increasing the pace — pushing ahead like a 
doped race-horse, at a half-mile gait, forgetting that there was 
anybody behind him. The pace held — screwed up tight — 
stride and stride alike, round the upper turn and into the open 
again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a big mullin leaf — 
one of his old mile-stones — slip past their feet, the beginning 
of the third quarter. But the shade of a let-down in the pace 
which he expected there and which prepares for the last quarter 



ARTHUR RUHL 173 

never came. As they struck the cooler air — it was like get- 
ting out of a cornfield into the road — the noise about the judges' 
stand — Sugar River and Vandalia all mixed together — came 
reaching across the field bigger than ever, and every time it 
puffed out louder the Other Man's back jumped ahead a bit. 
The Vandalia Miler stuck close — not pressing, not letting him- 
self lose an inch. He was holding every ounce of steam, run- 
ning every stride with his head. Round the lower turn they 
pounded, every dozen strides or so letting slip another link, 
and then, just as they were rounding into the straightaway, 
there suddenly puffed up from the judges' stand a great roar 
of " Sugar River !" At the same instant he heard a hoarse breath 
just behind his neck, an arm bumped his elbow, and the tow- 
headed man pushed by on the outside and went up after the 
leader. The crowd down the track was going wild. Old 
Skerritt was banging the engine-bell for the last lap like a 
fireman going to a fire. The Vandalia Miler didn't shift his 
eyes a hair's breadth from the Other Man's back. He was 
surprised at himself to see how cool he was; how he was calcu- 
lating whether the Other Man was tireless or had merely lost 
his head, whether the Sugar River man could make good with 
his bluff or whether, as they heard the crowd, he was just 
playing to the gallery. In the next two-twenty he would know. 
There was more than a quarter yet to go, and he tried to feel 
it all as a unit and know just how much he had left. Past 
the stand and into the crowd again — the Sugar River man's 
chin slewed round a bit. He was lifting into the sprint! And 
a quarter yet to go! He saw the Other Man's back jump 
forward as he met the challenge, saw them fighting, shoulder to 
shoulder, knew the moment had come, that here and now the 
race was to be lost or won, and he squeezed his corks, shut his 
eyes, and bore on hard. For a dozen strides he fought, like a 
man under water trying to get to the surface, when suddenly, 
from the edge of the track ahead came a quick, triumphant 



174 LEFT BEHIND 

cheer. He opened his eyes. The Sugar River man was ahead! 
He had squeezed past and was on the pole, drawing away from 
the Other Man. But it was not the Sugar-River yell that was 
echoing across the track. It was a new and different cry — 
nervous, compact, fierce, relentless. It forced itself through 
the general hullabaloo and dominated it, and suddenly it came 
clear to the Vandalia Miler's ears — the old drum-beat cheer — 
his cheer — the one he and the Other Man had taught the 
school before the team went to Pardeeville. And his name was 
at the end. Down came a pair of arms a rod or two in front of 
him and out it smashed again — that wonderful yell with the 
sudden shift of the beat in the fifth line, like getting under 
a big weight, all together, and shoving after you've been pound- 
ing it. He fought on in a dizzy sort of trance, not knowing 
what was happening, but feeling suddenly light and confident 
and strong. He felt himself gaining — felt that somehow the 
backs of the other two men were drawing irresistibly nearer. 
Some one ran along beside him, waving a hat. "You've got 
him! You've got him! Keep it up! Keep it up!" the man 
cried. " Vandalia! Vandalia! Vandalia!" All at once it 
came to him that he had got him — got the Other Man — got 
the ringer — that Vandalia was going to beat Sugar River and 
they were calling on him to come. The cheer shot out again — 
a little farther ahead — as fast as the beat stopped it was caught 
up and carried on. Some one — it was the boys he 'd trained 
who had done it — had strung relays all round the track. It 
became a regular bombardment. The crowd listened — 
wavered — and broke loose. They came swarming down from 
the seats on the side hill and over the rail. They followed 
along behind in a drove, yelling like Indians. It looked like a 
picture of the flight from Pompeii with everybody laughing — 
kids and men and girls stumbling along in the grass at the side 
of the track and scuffling up the dust behind. He could hear 
them laughing and screaming: "Keep it up! Keep it up!" 



ARTHUR RUHL 175 

and "Beat him! Beat him! Vandalia! Vandalia!" and 
steadily all the time from behind and in front came that drum- 
beat cheer, ripping and pounding out above the rest. The 
relays crossed each other and overlapped, taking it up and 
beating it in — swinging it, jamming it at 'em. It seemed as 
though that whole fair ground had jumped together in a twink- 
ling and was calling on him to come. It all hit him in a flash — 
shivered up his backbone. He had stayed behind, but he 
was somebody, after all, and he stood for somebody and they 
stood for him and expected things of him. He forgot the Other 
Man, forgot himself. He was Vandalia now, and Vandalia 
must smash Sugar River. It was more than getting even, 
more than winning; it was fighting for his friends, for his town, 
for his country. His feet seemed lifted from the ground. 

Maybe Vandalia was a dull place to live in, but it was ever- 
lastingly healthy. All his running and going-to-bed-with-the- 
chickens came back to help him now. Rounding into the 
stretch, he took the bit in his teeth and turned everything loose. 
With every stride he seemed to pull the Sugar River man's 
back nearer, hand over hand. His elbow bumped an arm 
and he heard the Other Man gasping out, " Beat him! Beat 
him!'' as he passed by. Nothing could have stopped him then. 
There were fifty yards left. He shut his eyes again; his elbow 
bumped an arm, then the engine-bell was clanging overhead, and 
the tape hit his chest. The crowd closed in, there was a great 
uproar all round him, and he turned just in time to see the 
Sugar River man go down and out about six feet short of the 
line, and to catch the Other Man in his arms as he dove forward 
and fainted clean away. 

He picked him up like a child, and, spent as he was, car- 
ried him into the Tight- Wire Man's tent. Outside the crowd 
cheered and howled, and pushed up against the canvas walls, 
and from the distance came the boom of the band, marching 
toward them across the field. He swabbed on witch-hazel 



176 LEFT BEHIND 

desperately — panting, dizzy with excitement and happiness, 
and a queer happy-weepy remorse. The Other Man opened 
his eyes and blinked. 

" Bill" — he grinned the best he could and held out his hand — 
"I guess we've been fools long enough." Then he got tired again. 
"It was a great race," he said, without opening his eyes. The 
Vandalia Miler swabbed on the witch-hazel the harder. "Yes!" 
he panted; "Yes!" He meant that he thought it had been long 
enough. Somehow he couldn 't remember any words. Then the 
crowd pushed in. The Other Man raised himself on his elbow. 

"Go out to them, Bill," he said; "I'm all right. You 
don't want to forget — you're champeen of the world!" 

They grabbed him up, protesting, lifted him on their shoulders 
and carried him out of the tent. He felt the cooler air and he 
saw the faces turned toward him and heard the cheers and 
cries, and then they marched out to the people — his own 
people at last — with the band booming away at the head. 

That, in a way, is about what they've been doing to him 
ever since, out there in Vandalia. At least that is what Star- 
buck said as he told us the story — we who had run together 
and played together and were back from East and West to see 
another class day, to tell the old stories, run the old races over 
again, swing home again with the pack through the frosty 
autumn, toward the lights of the Square. Starbuck, you see, 
was the Other Man. 

"They've just nominated him for governor out in our State," 
said he, "and they're celling the story of that race all the way 
from South River Junction to the North State line. I'm one 
of Bill's spell-binders; that's why I tell it so well. He's our 
Favorite Son now, and he's only begun." Starbuck took a 
couple of brisk pulls at his cigar and blew a big cloud of smoke 
toward the ceiling. 

"Begins to look," said he, cheerfully, "as though I was the 
man who was left behind." 



XIII. THE CHAPERON * 
Alta Brunt Sembower 

[/This story is an example of how to weave the strands of a peculiar plot into 
the texture of common, homely life. Notice how easily the unusual and the com- 
monplace join, each helping to bring out, rather than to subdue, the essential 
qualities of the other, and how they make a single pattern.] 

Silas Rand stood on the platform at Rand's Crossing — 
which, as the world's approach to a stretch of notable farming 
country, had long since ceased to have any pride merely in being 
his namesake — and watched the disappearing train. Some- 
thing feminine in the cool swiftness with which it took the curves 
struck him as he gazed. It had the triumphant air that his 
wife sometimes wore when she was going out of the room after 
a verbal shot. 

" She's gone I" announced Silas, with generous admiration. 

He had thought himself alone — the morning train had left 
no passengers. The hack which had waited to carry passengers 
to the town of Millers ville was going off with resignation. 
But Ezriah Meeks, the station-master, had lingered on the 
platform to prolong the excitement of " train- time," and he 
caught Silas's words. 

"Is she gone for long?" he inquired, with respectful interest. 

Silas enjoyed the full content of the mistake before cor- 
recting it. He was a farmer of the prosperous, comfortable 
class, but he had never acquired the roundness nor the restful 
stolidity which often result from prosperity. 

"Who gone?" he began, with humorous deliberation, but ended 
by giving up the pretense of not understanding. "Lucy? 
Well, yes, she's gone too long to suit me and her mother. Did 

1 Reprinted from Harper's Magazine with the kind permission of the editors 
and of the author. 



178 THE CHAPERON 

she mention" — an acquired caution, due to many reproofs 
at home for his loquacity, appeared in Silas's tone — "that 
she's goin' t' the city to hev her picture took?" 

The station-master realized that if he wished to hear the news 
there was a need for diplomacy on his own part. He was not 
without a gift for it — bequeathed him perhaps by his mother, 
who had solved the problem of naming him for his two grand- 
fathers, Ezra and Uriah, at a single stroke. "No," he said, 
cautiously. "I can't say that she did exactly" — he added, 
as a shade of reticence passed over the farmer's face. "I'm 
tumble busy around here," he hinted, "just before the train 
comes in." 

The happy thought that lack of opportunity was the only 
thing that had prevented Lucy's confidence succeeded with 
her father. It fell in with his own desire to talk, and, as with 
many parents, his sense of humor weakened as the subject of 
discussion approached his child. 

"She's gone to hev it did," he imparted, walking to a place 
on the platform from which he could keep an eye upon his 
horses. "Her and her mother has been plannin' it out," he 
went on, sitting down upon a baggage-truck, "down to the 
last detail. It'll take about a month, they reckon." 

"I thought they struck 'em of! in less time than that," said 
Ezriah. "Is it cabinet photographs?" 

"No, it ain't cabinets," said Silas. "As far as I make out 
it's a painted photograph. There's only one of it. A porterate 
— that's the word." Ezriah gazed without blinking, but his 
face did not light up. "I hain't lent much time to it," Silas 
apologized, "but I hear 'em talking it over in the evenin's after 
the city paper's come. It was a kind of prize contest — a 
little kewpon in each day. I steer off from such things myself; 
they tantalize your wits only to disappoint you. But women 
will risk disappointment any day to be amused. I don't 
deny in this case that they got their reward." 



ALTA BRUNT SEMBOWER 179 

"Was it something that you git with soap?" inquired Ezriah. 

His friend gazed at him in astonishment. "With soap? 
Soap!" He recovered himself with difficulty. "Well, I guess 
I'd hev set foot down myself on soap. But Mehala! And 
Lucy! Why, they ain't a soap aitikle made that Mehala 'd 
think was good enough to rest Lucy's little slippers on. This 
was, as I make out, a high-class thing — kewpons and all. 
It wasn't more than four lines in the paper every day, but four 
lines in a city paper, Mehala says, is better than a page. Only 
the right people see it then, she says." 

"She seen it," agreed Ezriah, with the evident intention of 
flattery. He was a friend of Mehala Rand as well as of her 
husband, and he had had no intention of reflecting upon hei 
taste. 

Silas was mollified. "She's seen every word in the paper," 
he said, with affectionate pride, "since Brother Jed began to 
send it to us fifteen years ago. She's a reader — Mehala is — 
and Lucy's kind of inherited it. You and I'd 'a' missed them 
kewpons, Ezriah. They was away down on the society page. 
'For the poor of St. Stephen's parish,' it said. A woman's 
society had the runnin' of the thing. You remember the 
bazaar that the ladies of Hope Church held over here, and 
raffled off a cake. That's what this was, only there wasn't 
any bazaar nor any cake. You puzzled out a kewpon every 
day and sent it in with a triflin' sum, and the prize was your 
picture painted by a man whose business ginerally is to paint 
the rich, but who was willin' to give this to St. Stephen's poor. 
I reckon the women folks wheedled it out of him. They like 
to get their hands upon your pocketbook. They didn't give 
this picture to the winner for nothing — they was a ten-dollar 
clause attached to it. That's why I took it. You don't git 
anything for nothing, I told the folks, but for ten — " 

"Did Lucy git the prize?" asked Ezriah. 

"Twas strange," said Silas, "with half the city goin' crazy 



180 THE CHAPERON 

over this man's work — we read about that one day in another 
place in the paper — this prize come to a rooral district." 

"Maybe the society folks didn't try for it," Ezriah sug- 
gested. "I've heard there's a lot of false pride amongst them." 

"Maybe so," said Silas. "And maybe Lucy and her mother 
was too shrewd for them. They did it for the fun at first — 
puzzlin' it out. Then it seemed a pity not to send the kewpons 
in. Lucy thought it was amusin'; her mother took it a good 
deal more serious. But they both" — Silas chuckled at the 
memory — "looked scared when the prize letter come." 

"And Lucy packed right up and went," said Ezriah, expressing 
what his own impulse would have been. 

"Well, no!" Silas rose and began to move toward his horses. 
His friend followed him hungrily. "No; that was where the 
rub come in. When it come to the p'int o' that, it seemed that 
Lucy had been countin' on her mother's porterate. And Me- 
hala had been cherishin' — like the strawberry jam she's got 
down-cellar — the idee of hevin' Lucy took. She 'd planned it 
out — Mehala had. She wanted Lucy in her new lawn dress. 
It made her nearly sick when Lucy said she wouldn't go. They 
never would 'a' reached a p'int o' view, I guess, if I hadn't 
settled it." Silas untied the horses and climbed into the buggy. 
For a moment it seemed that Ezriah was to be left starving for 
the last details. 

"Did you pick Lucy out?" he asked, invitingly. 

Silas reproved so easy a solution. "I was settin' one night 
listenin' to 'em arguin'. Lucy ain't much to argue: she just 
gives a kind o' sad little 'no.' But she means it. And Mehala 
was nigh hysteriky. I remarked that I guessed that was about 
what the poor of St. Stephen's parish and those women had 
expected it to come to. They thought the offer might be 
turned back in on them — none to blame but them that refused 
it! — and they wouldn't be out nothin' at all. There's some 
money in them kewpons — the Lord knows how they calcylate 



ALTA BRUNT SEMBOWER 181 

it out! Mehala near collapsed to hear me talk so. But Lucy 
stiffened up a mite. I seen her mouth tighten like when on 
occasion she has to help me separate old Bossy and the calf. 
Lucy's a tender-hearted little thing, but she can do when she 
sets her mind to it. What does she say after a minute but thet 
she '11 go ! Mehala set there lookin' at her, like some one afraid 
to jiggle a piece o' chiny for fear that it might break. But 
Lucy kept her mind made up. She's goin' to visit Jed's folks 
while she's there. That was a part of Mehala's plan. I was 
glad it was settled so," said judicial Silas, "for Mehala's sake. 
Lucy looks right pretty in that new lawn dress. It's white and 
soft, with a sprig of blue in it — " 

"She'll make a sightly picture," said Ezriah, drawing back 
from the muddy wheels and watching them begin to move. 
"Let me know when she comes back with it." 

"I reckon you'd know when she was comin'," said Silas, 
"by the look o' Mehala's face and mine. We're lonesome 
as whippoorwills without her." He touched the horses re- 
luctantly, as if he saw the lonely house ahead of him. "Mehala 
will be waitin'. She's had her way about the picture; I don't 
doubt she's kind o' regrettin' it now. Hevin' your own way 
ain't always the pleasantest thing in the world." 

Ezriah was in no danger of mistaking the day that was 
bringing Lucy home. Silas arrived at the station an hour be- 
fore the train, and, seated on the baggage-truck, added to his 
story of the portrait certain details furnished by Lucy's letters 
since the sittings had begun. The month allowed in Mehala's 
calculations had lengthened into six weeks, owing to the fact, 
as Silas put it, that "the settin's hadn't come regular, but only 
off and on." 

"It's like the dentists, I presoom," said Ezriah. "Some 
days they hev you and some days they don't." 

"A line o' miserable sufferers comin' in between," elaborated 
Silas, always pleased with a flight of the imagination. "This 



1 82 THE CHAPERON 

ain't, of course, a busy season for the artists," he went on, 
in a more practical vein. "Most of their subjects, it seems, are 
off to Europe. Some of the artists go along. But this one, 
Lucy says, is dreadful earnest in his work, and he's got some on 
hand, he told her, that he was goin' to finish if it took all sum- 
mer. He must be an interestin' fellow, along with his paintin' 
work. Lucy says she enjoys just to set and watch." 

"Did she say how many settin's it would take?" asked 
Ezriah, giving a critical turn to his inquiries. "It don't seem 
scarcely reasonable that he should expect Lucy to take all 
summer to it, too. Does Lucy" — Ezriah was emboldened 
to a still more scientific doubt — "admire of his work?" 

Silas drew down his brows in an effort to remember. "She 
says — Shoo! I thought I had her letter here. Well, she 
says she can't tell exactly what it's like, because it's just her. 
I guess I can tell, if it is her. She says the colors, though, 
stand out soft like the mist over the marsh in the early morn- 
ings. An' she says her mother will like the face. If it satisfies 
Mehala" — Silas gave a comprehensive sigh — "I reckon 
they ain't no question of the picture. Anyway, it's done. 
I'm glad o' that. Times when it looked to me, ez you say, 
ez it would take all summer to the job. Lucy would write, 
'I go to-morrow,' or, 'I went yesterday,' to the stoodio, and 
there was no mention of any end to it. But it come apparently 
— like all things, except the judgment day." 

"I hope Lucy didn't hurry the feller at the last," said Ezriah, 
treacherously turning upon his former attitude. "I've knowed 
good jobs spoiled by people gittin' nervous over 'em." 

"I don't guess that Lucy '11 hev made any mistake," said Silas, 
happily. "She may 've got a bit homesick. When she was at 
the 'cademy at Meedville, she used to fret for Mehala and me. 
I'm glad the picture's done. We may run on for several 
months now before the women gets another idee." 

Ezriah busied himself actively with the mail-bags as the 



ALTA BRUNT SEMBOWER 183 

train rushed in. He did not confess it to others, but he had a 
private superstition against expecting pleasure to arrive with 
any train; it was like waiting for your ship to come in. 

But Silas was not disappointed; Lucy was the only pas- 
senger that did alight. Silas stood watching for her, only his 
eyes showing his pleasure when her small blue-gowned figure 
appeared. She looked for him eagerly as she came down the 
steps, and he claimed her with a humorous little gesture that 
made the women at the car windows stare with interest at the 
two. 

She was a delicate-looking girl, in contrast with her father's 
sturdy vigor. But she had a vigor of her own — of the sort 
that makes for grace instead of strength or bulk. She looked 
like a healthy flower which has been sheltered in its growth. 
Silas and Mehala had evidently felt the responsibility of such a 
charge: they had been tender in their touch. The girl's face 
showed beneath a veil of shyness the fearlessness of innocent 
thought. 

Outwardly she had, as much as anything else, a look which 
women would have united to call a nice." Her father — and 
perhaps men in general — would have thought the word too 
mild. Whatever she seemed to others, she was altogether pleas- 
ing to his eyes. He looked her up and down as he took her 
small travelling-bag. 

"I come in the spring- wagon," he said, apologetically. "Your 
mother said 'twa'n't no way to bring you home. But the 
trunk was to be considered, and I had to make a trip to the mill." 

Lucy put her hand lovingly into his arm. She looked tired 
and excited. 

"As if I minded, father, how you've come! Only, do let's 
be quick. It is so good" — she spoke with faint but eager 
preoccupation — "to be at home." 

Silas was gazing with head on one side, at the trunk. "Is 
the picture in that?" He was radiant with good feeling and 



184 THE CHAPERON 

realized expectation. "I've been telling Ezriah about it. 
I reckon we couldn't take it out?" 

"It isn't there," said Lucy. "It is — " 

"Comin' by express," anticipated Silas, anxious to acknowl- 
edge that his hopes had been too high. "Well, I 'd always ruther 
bring my parcels home under my arm. You do feel safer. 
But it ain't the way of this day and generation. Mehala 
won't expect it. She's more modern in her views." 

"It'll be safe enough if it comes my way," said Ezriah, 
helping Silas put the trunk in the wagon. "I sha'n't lose 
no time in notifyin' you." 

Lucy had climbed without assistance to the wagon seat. 
She sat lightly erect, looking across the sunny wheat-fields. 
Silas clambered over the wheel and settled himself beside her. 
He glanced back at Ezriah, and was evidently about to extend 
another cheerful invitation to a private view, when he felt 
Lucy's hand laid suddenly upon his. 

"Don't say anything more about the picture, father — 
please! I haven't brought it home." 

Silas turned a jovial face toward her as the horses swung into 
the road. "Bless your soul, child; I never thought you would. 
I was only talkin' to Ezriah. We chat each other a good deal 
that way. I 'd just as soon — I 'd ruther it 'd come later than 
you. It's like gittin' two prize packages 'stid o' one." 

Lucy had a patient look. " But, father — I thought I should save 
it to tell mother, but I believe it is easier to tell you — it isn't 
coming at all — the picture. I didn't stay to let it be finished." 

Silas puckered his mouth to whistle, but he made no sound. 
His face had grown attentive. Now that he had time to think 
of it, he realized that Lucy had what he would have called a 
"worry on her mind." 

"Didn't you like the picture, dearie?" he asked, in his mildest 
tone. He gave a flick of the whip across the horses' backs, 
to imply that the question was a casual one. 



ALTA BRUNT SEMBOWER 185 

Lucy hesitated. "Like it? Oh, father — " an eagerness 
began to tremble in her tone, but she held it back. "You see, 
father" — she tried to make her tone judicial — -"Mr. Ark- 
wright is a great painter — a well-known painter — though 
he is not old. You couldn 't question his work. He has painted 
famous people — " 

"Paints blue satin better — likely," said Silas, "than a clump 
o' johnny-jump-ups in the woods." He was stiffening a little 
at the hint of self-depreciation in Lucy's words. 

A smile came into Lucy's eyes. "He painted some flowers 
in my hands — blue gentians — that even you, father, would 
have thought came from our woods." 

Silas sighed as if at the picture. "Blue gentians." He had 
a moment's wonder. "They don't grow in towns." 

"No; he got them somewhere," said Lucy, with a girl's 
simplicity. "He wanted them for the picture very much." 

Silas looked up suddenly from his reflections. "Did you 
pay him the ten dollars, Lucy?" 

Lucy grew pale, and then painfully crimson. "No, I didn't 
— " The pleasure had gone out of her face. "I didn't — 
I couldn't, father. That was one of the things I couldn't do." 

"It didn't seem enough?" Silas nodded his head gently 
to indicate that he knew just what such scruples were. He 
kept on nodding it. "And yit — and yit — it seems as if 
he'd earned it — if 'twa'n't enough." 

"Enough!" said Lucy. Her tone swelled with meaning, 
then fell as if before a task too great. 

Silas was still shrewdly attentive. "Did you come away, 
honey, because you felt that way? As if you wasn't payin' 
for the picture right?" 

His patience touched the girl's sense of duty. She answered 
simply: "No, I didn't, father. I did feel that at first, and it 
was hard. Mother hadn't imagined what it would be. She 
thought only about having the picture. But I tried to be 



1 86 THE CHAPERON 

sensible. I was ashamed of being ashamed. The agreement 
was what it was, and I tried to be business-like about it. Mr. 
Arkwright didn't make it hard. He didn't seem to think 
anything about the terms of the picture, after it was begun. 
He — he seemed glad to work upon it. And I meant — I 
meant to give him the ten dollars. But at the last — when 
I came away so — so suddenly — " Her voice began to falter. 

Silas asserted a stronger claim. "What made you come away, 
honey?" 

The girl's answer seemed irrelevant. "Some of his friends 
came one day — a girl and her mother — " Lucy suddenly 
broke off, and addressed her father in an almost impersonal 
way. "Father, do you believe that a person can do a wrong 
thing — or a thing that has the appearance of being wrong — 
without having any idea at all that it is wrong?" 

Silas was drawn beyond his resistance by discussion: it was 
the tree of temptation for him; and though he was still con- 
centrated intensely upon rinding out what was troubling Lucy, 
he saw no harm in stepping aside for a moment to follow out a 
"line o' thought." 

He seldom committed himself, however, early in an argument. 
"There's a heap o' crime committed in ignorance," he said, 
wisely, and paused to catch up a doubtful thread. "But 
there is things that looks wrong — a plenty — that ain't wrong, 
neither." 

"There are things that are wrong because they look wrong," 
said Lucy, with sudden intensity. 

Her father bent a doubtful gaze upon her. "Not accordin' 
to regular law, honey." He gave her a whimsical but tender 
smile. "That's some kind of a woman's law." 

"It's social law," said Lucy. 

"Well, we ain't socialists," said Silas. He was uncertain 
himself whether he had made a joke or not. 

The girl began again. 



ALTA BRUNT SEMBOWER 187 

"Father, if a man should come along and pass through one 
of our gates, and leave it open; or let down the bars — " 

"Some city foo — fellow?" asked Silas, following intently. 

"What would you think of him?" asked Lucy. 

Silas considered. "Well, I should say — first — he didn't 
know no better — " 

"You would despise him," said the girl, with a cold kind of 
triumph. 

"No — no — " Silas rejected this as too harsh. "No, I 
shouldn't despise him. I should just say he didn't know no 
better, and — and — " 

"But if he left the way open," cried the girl, unconsciously 
combining literal and figurative, "to misjudgment of not only 
himself, but of his — his people — " 

Silas was intent for once upon the literal. "Of course, if he 
let something loose — " He paused, suspecting a pitfall. 
The girl's face was so bitterly intent upon him. Silas suddenly 
struck for a harmless way out. "I should just say, honey, 
that he warn't to blame to any great degree — though ignorance 
ain't no excuse in the eyes o' the law — exceptin' just, in my 
opinion, so far ez he was to blame fer goiti' into places he didn't 
know about." 

Lucy sank back against the narrow bar of the wagon seat. 
She waited a moment before speaking. "That's why I came 
home, father," she said, in a quiet, restrained voice. "Because 
— because I never should have gone." 

The turn of conversation was too quick for Silas. "Never 
should 'a' gone?" he repeated, vaguely. 

"Not in the way I did," said Lucy; "to the studio, I mean. 
Alone." 

"Alone!" A sudden flash of trouble appeared in Silas's face. 

The girl caught the gleam of it without analyzing it. "Per- 
haps you would say there was no harm done, father. It's 
just — just the way I feel about it. It's not the way things 



188 THE CHAPERON 

are done in the city, that's all. Girls don't go about so. It 
gives a wrong impression." 

In his anxious bewilderment, Silas — for one of the few times 
in his life — spoke a word of blame to her. "What made ye 
go, then, Lucy?" 

She saw no injustice in this. Her defence of herself was only 
half-hearted. "I didn't know about it. At least I had only 
read it — I remembered that afterward — in novels. I didn't 
think, somehow, of it as real, and as ever touching me." 

Silas was recovering himself. "Well, I guess it ain't touched 
you yit" — his need of reassurance took the form of aggressive 
self-assertion — "to do ye any hurt." 

"No," said Lucy. Her delicate face smoothed itself into a 
look of firm cheerfulness. She tried to speak with lightness. 
"No, it's only a matter of feeling better or worse over a blunder. 
It's making another to grieve about the first." 

Seeing her so reasonable roused a thirst in Silas for some one 
to vent his wrath upon. "What made ye feel this, honey? 
Did that — I thought you said he — " 

"It was the young lady that I spoke of," said Lucy, as if the 
detail were of no importance to her. "She came with her 
mother to see a picture. She found me resting — reading a 
book. She seemed" — Lucy flushed — "to like my portrait. 
I heard her say it was — lovely. Then — she said something 
to her mother. She didn't mean me to hear. I couldn't 
help it. Mr. Arkwright heard it, too — he was coming from 
the other room." 

"What could she say?" asked Silas. He glanced from the 
girl's face down at her dress, and at her face again, helpless 
to find anything to warrant a sneer. 

Lucy was patient, like a tired child, with his wonder. "It 
was something about a chaperon." 

"A shappy-roan!" said Silas. It seemed to him an irrelevant 
reference to horses. 



ALTA BRUNT SEMBOWER 189 

"It's the person who goes along," said Lucy. "That young 
lady's mother was her chaperon." 

"Oh!" said Silas. A sudden and most unusual sharpness 
cut into his drawling tone. "Well, I'm glad she had some- 
body to take care o' her." His anger increased at the sound of 
itself spoken. "What did you say back to her, honey?" 

Lucy gazed, astonished. "Why, father!" But a slight flash 
burned in her own face at the memory. "I didn't say any- 
thing, of course. I — I went away very soon. Mr. Arkwright 
introduced me to them. And — I said I had to go. I forgot 
about staying for the sitting. I meant to go back — or to 
write a note to say I hadn't realized — I meant to send the 
money. But I couldn't — somehow I couldn't do any of those 
things. I wanted to come home. And I did. And I can't go 
back, father" — the girl's self-control suddenly broke with a 
trembling little cry — "ever. You mustn't ask me to." 

"I sha'n't ask you to," said Silas. He was turning grimly 
over in his mind the new word he had learned. New words 
and new ideas made themselves quickly at home with him; 
he was so hospitable to them. "I reckon your mother could 
'a' been one — one of those things," he ventured. 

"Yes," Lucy agreed. "Mother, or Aunt Barbara — or you!" 

"Me!" said Silas, overwhelmed. 

Lucy showed a new dread as they drew near a curve in the 
hedge-bordered road which hid them from their house. " Mother 
will mind so much about the picture!" 

Silas urged the horses on. "Mehala ain't no fool." He 
modified his statement unconsciously by adding, "We'll tell 
it to her gradual." 

"I couldn't bear that she should be blamed," said Lucy, 
" that he — that they — should think she didn't know. It 
was my place to know. I am younger" — she was uncon- 
scious of expressing anything so broad as the social code of the 
new world — "and it was my place to know. She ought to 



iqo THE CHAPERON 

blame me — I don't mind her blaming me. But she believed 
so in me — it will hurt her." The girl struck her hands softly 
together as if over an intolerable regret. "I can't bear to hurt 
her. But" — a sudden suspicion of her father's meditative 
silence made her flash round upon him fervidly — "I want her 
to be told the truth." 

"The truth!" Silas was growing calmer, like a sailor who, 
after a hard voyage, begins to draw into port. He indulged a 
tender chuckle. " You nee'n' to worry. You know yer mother's 
quiet in her way. But if we tried to keep her back from it with 
red-hot irons, I guess she would get at the truth." 

The road to Rand's Crossing was not, in late August, the 
road that it had been in mid-April and May. Silas and his 
horses, usually a complacent trio, yielded to an air of boredom 
as they jogged home from the mill one afternoon, a month after 
Lucy's return. Yet Silas was not altogether without reason 
for self-content. He had resisted turning aside at the station 
for a chat with Ezriah, and his conscience was patting him on 
the back. It was like a reward of merit when, rounding a 
curve, he saw ahead of him an unfamiliar figure, hat in hand, 
walking in the grass beside the road. 

He stared critically at the pedestrian. 

"Ain't got sense enough to keep his hat on fer shade 'stid 
o' takin' it off fer air when they ain't none. And kicks that 
weed-dust up around his legs because he 'magines that the road 
is worse." The farmer quickened the pace of his horses toward 
this misguided infant of the road. 

"Hev a ride?" he called, as the man, without glancing round, 
stepped farther aside to let the wagon pass. "Used to gettin' 
out of the way of kerridges," reasoned Silas, continuing his 
favorite amusement of analyzing human beings as scientists ana- 
lyze peculiar bugs. " Reckon he thinks this is an omynibus." 

The man in the road lifted a preoccupied face, which lighted 



ALTA BRUNT SEMBOWER 191 

up in a moment with pleasant gratitude. "Thanks. I should 
like it very much." He swung himself up over the wheel with 
a dexterity yet somewhat foreign to that form of exercise. 
"It was getting pretty stiff along here where there isn't any 
shade." His face betrayed beneath a superficial coat of 
crimson the dawning pallor due to unaccustomed exposure to 
the sun. 

"It's the hottest road between Jerusalem and Jericho," said 
Silas. He busied himself with the buckle of the lines to allow 
the other a moment for recovery. "There's a breeze up here 
on the wagon seat, though. That's why I took pity on you 
down there on the level." 

The stranger smiled. "I'm not such a bad walker when I'm 
in trim," he said, with the city's man fear of being considered 
unathletic. "But I've been sticking close to my work. It 
makes a man a little soft." 

The farmer had none of this physical pride. "Don't reckon 
I've walked along this road for twenty years. Daisy and Nell 
are good enough for me." He slapped the horses. 

"They are so much too good for me," said the young man — 
he was about thirty, Silas calculated from casual glances at 
his thoughtful, clean-shaven face — "that they might be 
drawing a chariot dropped from heaven. I wonder if you are 
going as far as to Mr. Silas Rand's?" 

Silas had a moment of keen enjoyment. 

"I'm going jest thet far," he allowed, after a silence. 

The stranger turned a quick, inquiring face. "Are you 
Mr. Rand himself?" There was a note of pleasure in his voice 
that conquered Silas. "I might have guessed it," the young 
man went on, with frank apology, "if I hadn't been so done 
up." He permitted himself an eager scrutiny of the farmer's 
face. "I was thinking — in fact, I was thinking up. I haven't 
thought up anything yet," he confessed, "to say. But I 
believed it would come to me on the road. And if the sun 



192 THE CHAPERON 

hadn't burned all my senses — " He broke off again with a 
hopeless smile at his own floundering. "I want to see Miss 
Lucy Rand." 

Silas looked up with deliberation. "Did you come to see 
about that picture?" He also indulged himself in a fuller 
gaze into the other's face. It was a pleasant-featured, earnest 
face, which returned his gaze without boldness yet with openness. 
Silas concluded that he liked it; he allowed his keen blue eyes 
to twinkle forth a gleam of sympathy. 

The young man caught at it with vehemence. "You know 
who I am, then, Mr. Rand? I am, of course, the painter of 
Miss Rand's portrait. I've finished it without any more 
sittings. I've run down to — to see about it." 

"She got the two letters that you wrote, askin' her to let you 
finish it," said Silas. He gazed off into a neighboring field. 
"I guess she answered ye." 

"Yes, she did," said the painter. He gave a short, unquiet 
sigh, and spoke as if to himself. "She could scarcely have 
refused me that." 

"She got quite an upset down there," said Silas, with a rather 
dry but not unkindly frankness. "It was somethin' that a 
lady said. Lucy ain't used to criticism. I reckon" — a note 
betraying a real concern sounded through the farmer's 
casual tone — "we've sort o' spoiled her for the world. We 
didn't know none of the fashions. We always let her think 
that she was all right so long as she was sweet and good." 

"She is like a spirit," said the painter, from some impulse of 
his own. 

Silas gave a quick glance of uneasiness. "Yes, and yit she 
ain't a spirit. That's the way with girls. Half is angel, and 
the other half is interested in the affairs of this world. Lucy's 
always seemed above the little fault-findin's of women — she 
ain't missed all o' them even in this country place — but I 
'clare the child looks pret' near sick rerlectin' on the words 



ALTA BRUNT SEMBOWER 193 

o' that young lady down with you. I reckon she had a grand 
way. That goes right to a woman's heart." 

"She has the way of thousands of people," said the painter, 
"who get their opinions ready-made; they haven't the power 
of individual judgment." 

"I reckon the' was a little rancor in her speech," said Silas, 
wistful after the truth. 

The painter was sternly frank. He gazed at the passing 
fields for a moment, then shifted his position abruptly. "I 
was to blame," he broke out, in a low tone. "Wretchedly to 
blame." 

Silas was thoughtful. "You mean you ought to 'a' told us?" 

The delicacy of the pronoun struck the young man to the 
heart. " Yes, I mean" — he lost some of the poise which he had 
been trying to maintain — "I should have protected her. I 
knew she didn't know. And yet I didn't know that, either — 
or care! I tell you the truth, Mr. Rand" — the young man's 
words became more resolute as they became more coherent — 
"I never thought of applying any such ideas to her. She stood 
alone from the moment she came to see about those odd arrange- 
ments for the picture. I'd forgotten all about St. Stephen's 
Guild. But she made the arrangements — she made everything 

— seem simple and plain, so long — as you said — as they were 
good. Women of that sort," the young man finished, with 
a young man's positiveness, "are not meant to follow rules. 
They are meant to make them." 

"There ain't no rule too good for Lucy," said her father. 
"That's what she's bound to hev us grant. Her aunt Barbara 

— that's the aunt she visited in town — laughed when Lucy 
told her how she felt. Barbara said, 'Them is ways for society 
folk.' But Lucy wouldn't hev it. She talked to me about it." 

"She sees beauty in convention," said the painter. 
Silas was quiet for a moment. "You come to know Lucy," 
he said, with a note of wonder — and with something of the 



194 THE CHAPERON 

right to question — in his level voice, " pretty well durin' the 
makin' o' thet picture." 

"I came to — to — " The young man leaned forward, his 
elbows on his knees and his palms pressed together, and stared 
at the green dashboard of the wagon. Then he faced the 
farmer. "It was more than that, Mr. Rand. That's why I 
came down to see you — to ask you if you thought she — 
might — ! It will seem too short a time to you. But" — he 
paused to make himself convincing — "I haven't cared much 
all my life for anything but my work; and I knew when she came ! 
Perhaps it was because she was like a flower, or a spirit from 
the woods — I've lived a good deal out-of-doors. And if 
she — "he recalled himself from his excited self-communion to 
his listener. "I should expect you to find out all about me, 
Mr. Rand. I'll wait — if she — We were congenial; until that 
wretched happening, I believed — " He drew himself together 
finally. "At least, I want to have my chance." 

Silas had stopped him with a motion of the hand. "We're 
comin' to the house — around this curve — right there. The 
folks '11 come out as quick's they hear the wagon wheels. I 
didn't mean to shet you up, young man!" Between attention 
to the horses and to the strings of a patent gate which swung 
cleverly open ahead of them, Silas turned his head to give his 
companion a keen but kindly glance. "I won't say I ain't 
been inflooenced by your p'int o' view. I make up my mind 
quick — too quick, maybe, sometimes — about a man. But 
all I got to say is concerning what you've said to me — you 
save it to tell her!" 

To which of the two figures on the farmhouse porch he re- 
ferred it might not have been plain to an unbiased listener. 
Lucy and her mother had both appeared, the former coming 
ahead. At sight of the wagon she stood motionless upon the 
steps. Mehala moved ahead of her, gazing with an increase 
of interest. The men saw the girl put her hand upon her 



ALTA BRUNT SEMBOWER 195 

mother's arm and draw Mehala back to her. Silas and his 
companion — the latter had become unconsciously in Silas's 
mind a charge — left the wagon in care of a farm-hand whom 
Silas hailed cheerfully as "Job," and came through an inner 
gate across a stretch of clipped grass to the porch. 

Lucy grew white as they came. But her face betrayed a 
light which was infinitely softer and more penetrating than 
a smile. Arkwright himself was pale; he went directly to her 
and held out his hand. They met, as young people do under 
excitement, oblivious of lookers-on. 

"The picture is done," said Arkwright, selecting, as it were, 
the detail from a multitude of things in his mind. 

Lucy replied with the same concentration upon a safe topic. 
"It has been a ridiculous trouble to you." 

"I picked him up out of a sun," said Silas, "that was tryin' 
to reduce him to a p'int where he couldn't paint a fly. Set and 
be comfortable, Mr. Arkwright." The farmer had renounced 
the necessity of being critical, the case being handed over to the 
womenfolk. 

Arkwright stood looking at these two; Mehala had received 
him with a quietly scrutinizing eye. "There is a train back 
to town at eleven," began the painter, hurriedly. "I'm going 
to walk to it. I can walk like a man, under a moon. But — ■ 
will you bear with me till then?" 

Silas's lips had moved to frame the word "to-morrow," but 
Mehala anticipated him. "Silas would enjoy right well to take 
you over in the buggy." She made the visitor at home with a 
gesture which was gracious in spite of being rather dry. "You're 
not used to havin' supper in the city, Mr. Arkwright, before 
the sun goes down. But Lucy and I was just gittin' ours. 
We'll go in and lay another plate." She laid her hand or 
Lucy's arm; the two moved together easily, as women do who 
are used to working with each other. 

Left alone with his guest after the simple meal, Silas smiled 



196 THE CHAPERON 

at him with rather sheepish comradeship. "I guess she thinks 
ye've come to see me," he said, and again the authoritative 
pronoun was clear only to himself. 

He raised his glance to his companion and found the younger 
man's eyes fixed upon him with a keen appeal. The farmer 
rose as a physician might respond to the call of pain. 

"I guess I'll go and see about the pigs," he said, with resolu- 
tion. Arkwright made no reply. Silas stopped in the doorway. 
" I '11 send Lucy here," he said with elaborate casualness. " She's 
always keen to set and watch the stars come out." 

But inside the house he became less certain of himself. He 
made his way rather waveringly to the kitchen, where he found 
Mehala straining the milk from the buckets into large shallow 
pans. Lucy stood by, watching her. 

Silas paused, anxiously studying the two. "I'm goin' out 
to help Job with the feedin'," he said at last. He jerked his 
thumb over his shoulder. "He's out there by himself. Air 
ye goin' to git out pretty soon?" 

Lucy gave her father a tremulous glance. "We're going 
as soon as mother strains the milk." 

Mehala straightened from her task and took off her apron. 
"I'm ready when you are," she said, rather grimly, to the girl. 
Silas was puzzled by Mehala. He watched her for a glance 
that would betray her secret attitude. She gave him no satis- 
faction. At the same time her air toward Lucy was not exactly 
a confidential one. If they were in collusion — Silas decided 
— they were silently so. He had almost the feeling that they 
were in collusion against him. He went toward the barnyard 
in a dejected frame of mind. 

Mehala led the way to the porch. Arkwright rose and offered 
her his chair, but she took another — a long-backed rocking- 
chair which caught her by the shoulders and held aloof at every 
other point. Mehala seemed to find it as comfortable as she 
had any right to expect. Lucy — evidently according to habit 



ALTA BRUNT SEMBOWER 197 

— seated herself on the step at her mother's feet. Arkwright, 
after a hesitation, chose a place at the other end of the step, 
facing Lucy. 

"It is scarcely safe to have thoughts in this silence," said the 
painter. "One feels as if they might be overheard. Is that 
the reason" — he addressed Mehala with a smile — ■ "that 
people living in places like this are good?" 

"They're not so good," said Mehala. She looked alert for 
conversation. Her eyes were watchful in the dusk, like a cat's 
eyes — with the quiet, too, of a cat. "There's a lot of ugli- 
ness, Mr. Arkwright," she fixed the young man keenly, "in 
places that look peaceful like this. People that come out for 
a while and ride along between the hedges only see the pretty 
side. They'd see the other soon enough. There's ignorance 

— and dulness — " 

Lucy exclaimed with quick amazement: "Mother! You 
know there's no place that you love so well!" 

"You can love better sometimes for not bein' 's blind as a 
mole," replied her mother. She was diverted slightly from 
her course by the girl's interruption, but she remained 
intense. "We are slow. We are backward in the ways of 
folks." 

"You lose very little by that," said Arkwright. His face, 
too, had grown slightly vigilant in the twilight. 

"We're not used to many kinds of vehicles," continued 
Mehala, her speech showing the influence of her husband's 
figurative mind. "We've only got one rule of the road — • 
when we 've got sense to have any at all — that's turn to the 
right." 

"It's the only rule that is absolutely necessary," said Ark- 
wright. "The others are outgrowths of it." 

A crow flew across the fields in the silence and above the 
house with a raucous cry. "There was a wicked thought!" 
said Lucy, looking up. She was not tense like the others. 



198 THE CHAPERON 

Her voice had a contented, relaxed note. For the first time her 
eyes and Arkwright's met in a smile, which seemed to make 
a bridge over which their spirits crossed. 

Mehala's eyes were fixed upon them. She began to speak 
again with quiet vigor. 

"I don't believe," she said, continuing her address to Ark- 
wright, "that a person — brought up like me, for instance — 
could ever learn to follow all the little rules that have been 
added on. It's for them that have grown up in the country 
to live their lives there. It may be" — her voice showed a 
deep quiver — " that they ain't done wholly right by their 
children. Maybe they've kept them out of life. But, how- 
soever, it's for the children to abide by it. They couldn't 
learn the other way. They would always be transgressin'." 

The painter was troubled and bewildered. But he kept to 
a simple path. "I don't believe there is any situation in the 
world, Mrs. Rand, in which you couldn't trust your instinct." 
He was beginning — he believed — to see the direction of her 
thought. But he drew her farther in it with a smile. " Could 
you hope the same of me?" 

"I don't believe that any two people," said Mehala, ignoring 
the question in her emotion, " brought up in different ways could 
ever trust each other to know just the thing to do. To — to 
please each other. They'd see life — I read it in a book once! 
— from different angles. Little differences" — her voice be- 
came prophetic — • "would rise up to trouble them. I — I 
should be afraid" — she became almost pleading in her stern- 
ness — "I should be terribly afraid to see it tried." 

"It is not a new experiment," said Arkwright. His voice 
was strong, too, with appeal. 

"It's a mighty dangerous one," said Mehala. 

It had become a duel, at last, which was apparent. Lucy, 
with a sudden startled movement, like a bird's, became aware 
of it. She put out a quick hand toward her mother. Arkwright, 



ALTA BRUNT SEMBOWER i 99 

as if to seize the moment before she should give a deciding 
word, leaned forward, speaking rapidly and firmly. 

"I should trust my happiness to it. And I should promise," 
he went on, with a burst of daring, "all that was doubtful. 
It is determination that makes three-fourths of happiness, any- 
way — not circumstance. Determination and — what you 
feel. I know what I feel," he suddenly threw out. "It is the 
surest feeling I have ever had. And I hope — I believe I may 
hope — "he gave a fleeting glance through the dusk at the 
girl, who sat poised motionless. "What I do believe," he went 
on to Mehala, "is that two persons who have seen each other 
across a difference of circumstances — who, through a cloud 
of apparent impossibility, have seen each other's real selves — 
have a chance for happiness that few can hope for. They know 
each other as they are. And they — love — what they see." 
He bent across to Lucy and broke the silence which practically 
had held them away from each other ever since he had come. 
"You — you believe it, too?" 

It was an expression of faith almost as much as a question. 
But Lucy felt the obligation of truth that it put upon her. She 
had laid one hand upon her mother's arm; she kept it there, and 
with the other found her mother's hand. Across this little circlet 
of protection she gave her eyes to Arkwright's gaze. 

"Yes, I do." Her voice was soft and tremulous, but it was 
not the voice of a child. Mehala heard the maturer note in it. 
She rose to her feet, loosing herself from the girl's grasp rather 
uncertainly. Arkwright rose and faced her with eager concern. 

"Can't you take me on trust, Mrs. Rand?" His boyish- 
ness was in his favor after his burst of positive opinion. "There 
are different standards of conduct and propriety. But there is 
only one standard of sincerity." 

Mehala met him courageously. "I think — I believe — 
you're a good man." Her voice trembled, but she recovered 
some of her dryness of speech. "Anyway, there's no more to 



200 THE CHAPERON 

do. I've thought — I've feared — ever since Lucy come 
home. But I hoped it was a girl's fancy — to pass away. 
Then when you came — I've my fears — I determined to tell 
'em to you — that such a thing can't turn out well. But" — 
she gave the young man a half-smile which betrayed that she 
had not opposed him altogether easily — " maybe it can!" 
She turned her glance toward Lucy as if the girl were far away. 
"I'll go and see what makes your father stay so long." 

Lucy made a sudden movement to delay her, but Mehala 
ignored it and opened the screen-door. Inside the house she 
paused an instant. Her heart yearned toward the girl, as indeed 
it had yearned all the evening while she had withheld a word 
of sympathy. She felt now almost as if she had abandoned her 
child to a foe. The next moment she heard Arkwright's swift 
step across the porch. She waited breathless for a sound from 
Lucy; it came, a quick sob of happiness. Mehala moved farther 
out of hearing. 

She heard Silas in the kitchen striking a match to light the 
lamp. He came slowly, carrying it into the parlor. Mehala 
met him in the door, took the lamp, and placed it on the table. 
Then she motioned Silas to a chair. He obeyed; he knew better 
than to precipitate the matter by questions when Mehala's 
face was tense like that. She did not keep him long in bewilder- 
ment; she forgot that she had snubbed him into silence toward 
her on the matter that had filled both their minds. 

"They're out there," she said, in a whisper full of helplessness, 
"again, without" — she halted at the new word. 

Silas's quickness of mind did not desert him in emotion. He 
saw the situation fully. A murmur of voices came softly 
from the porch. Silas turned his eyes toward the sound, and 
then back to Mehala's agitated face. When he spoke it was with 
unmodified cheerfulness. 

"I reckon," he said,without subduing his voice to Mehala's care- 
ful note — "I reckon they've got to take life without a shappy-roan. " 



PART III 
HOW TO SEE LIFE IMAGINATIVELY 



PART III 

INTRODUCTION 

HOW TO SEE LIFE IMAGINATIVELY 

The unity of worldly affairs, discussed at some length in the 
last section, forms the basis on which imagination constructs a 
story in everyday life. The unity of human emotion, the 
idea that a touch of nature makes the whole world kin, is the 
more specific principle on which we would base a discussion of 
the art of seeing things vividly or imaginatively. 

To see life vividly is to see it in its relation to human feeling. 
Unimaginative persons are either inattentive or see merely 
to recognize, to classify, and to know. Wordsworth's Peter 
Bell has become the type of the person who sees no more than 
meets the eye. 

"A primrose by the river's brim, 
A yellow primrose was to him, 
And it was nothing more." 

The imaginative attitude demands more than this simple 
observation. It demands an apprehension of things in at least 
some of their relations to the emotional life of men and women. 
The more profound and universal the relationship to this side 
of life, the higher is the form of imagination displayed. No 
writing can be considered vivid or artistic that fails to manifest 
something of this quality. A narrative is a bare chronicle 
without significance unless it is in some sense the product 
of the author's imaginative insight. 

Poets, more than other men, see human situations charged 
with their emotional meaning. Indeed, they are poets by virtue 



204 HOW TO SEE LIFE IMAGINATIVELY 

of the continued intensity and vividness with which they imagine 
life. Most of us on hearing a hurdy-gurdy or a barrel-organ 
always regard it as so much merely amusing or merely irritating 
sound. We are often scarcely conscious of any answer in us 
to the crude music, and we do not consider even remotely its 
possible effect on other persons. But the poet Alfred Noyes 
hears a barrel-organ 1 in the streets of London, and it opens to 
him the hearts of all men and women who trudge by in ap- 
parent insensibility. The thief, the portly man of business, the 
clerk, the butcher, the modish woman, the demi-rep are all 
carried on the wings of the banal music to "the land where the 
dead dreams go." Or Shelley hears of the death of John Keats, 
and the event arouses in the lyric poet a vast flood of personal 
feeling, which in turn gives him a vivid appreciation of what the 
earthly end of a poet means to the hearts of all men at all 
times. In Adonais, therefore, he is able to mount to perhaps 
the most exalted utterance in English literature of the emotions 
which the contemplation of Death and Eternity arouse in 
sensitive men. 

One need not possess a poet's lofty vision, however, to see 
things imaginatively. Above all, one need not discover remote, 
strange, or even exalted suggestions in common things. Im- 
agination is not, as many persons seem to think, an excursion 
into a world of phantasy. It can be exercised in the most 
humble situations. The student's theme, In the Firelight, 
in spite of some sentimentalism in tone, is proof of this fact. 
We all know a family in which strict religious parents refuse to 
let their sons and daughters learn to dance. This may be to us, 
however, a fact of no imaginative significance. If we begin 
to see this situation imaginatively, we shall doubtless see it at 
first only partially — with regard solely to the feelings of the 
children with whom we sympathize. Presented in dialogue 
without much further consideration, the case will appear far 

l "The Barrel Organ," Poems, Vol. I, by Alfred Noyes. 



HOW TO SEE LIFE IMAGINATIVELY 205 

less complex than in the student's theme. The daughter will 
represent all that is true and natural in feeling and the mother 
— unnatural Puritanical repression and unjustified authority. 
Miss Thomson, however, is able to conceive the emotions of 
all the persons from their own point of view. We catch a glimpse, 
therefore, of an entire family bound together by very deep 
affection. The differences in opinion about dancing show the 
sympathetic and deeply emotional relation existing between 
daughter and mother, brother and sister, father and mother, 
and even between the daughter and her college friends. The 
imaginative intensity of this sketch has been produced be- 
cause the author was able to see a simple human situation in 
terms of the feelings of many people. 

The power of seeing things vividly is perhaps oftenest desired 
for descriptive writing. Here students' extravagant ideas of the 
true nature of imagination sometimes lead to forced fancies. 
To see gnomes in the flames of a log-fire, elves in the moonlight, 
prancing steeds or trailing garments in smoke hanging over a 
city or swirling from the stacks is a relatively low manifestation 
of the imaginative faculty. To see the same city smoke as 
Booth Tarkington does in the passage from The Turmoil is to 
regard it with a more vivid and with a profounder insight. 
He sees it as a phenomenon laden with the history of human 
feeling in a mid-western city. The smoke means that the 
inhabitants of the place have for years been driven to violent 
action by a half-mad desire for money, and for bigness and hasty 
growth as necessary preliminaries, to this coveted wealth. 
The phenomenon has been able to evoke this vision from the 
mind of the author because it has been regarded not as an 
isolated fact for superficial record or description, but as the 
first of a train of logical emotional associations. The secondary 
facts are vitally concerned with human living and so freighted 
with emotion. The train of associations finally leads to the man 
Sheridan, who is a sort of twin brother to the smoke, born of 



206 HOW TO SEE LIFE IMAGINATIVELY 

the rush for bigness. He is the crass, brutal emotion of the city 
incarnate. Introduced in this character, he arouses immedi- 
ately an imaginative conception in the reader. He inherits at 
his first appearance much of the feeling which the antecedent 
description has aroused. 

The emotional contagion in a description more often proceeds 
from persons to objects and events. To see through the eyes 
of a character whose feelings we understand is to share his 
emotional prejudices. This imaginative method is illustrated 
in a simple form in The Glenmore Fire. As compared with the 
fire reported on the first page of your morning's paper — there 
is a four million dollar fire in a munition plant in Pittsburgh 
reported on the first page of mine — the Glenmore fire is a record 
not of facts but of feelings. The cause of the fire, the loss of 
fife, the terrible picturesqueness of the scene, are thrilling mainly 
because one of the helpless onlookers is the man who falsely 
built the Glenmore as a fire-proof hotel, knowing that he was 
cheating the world when he did it. The Glenmore fire is there- 
fore humanly dramatic, humanly significant. It is not a mere 
spectacle. How to give the munition plant fire its true imagi- 
native significance would be an interesting problem to work out 
in the light of this lesser conflagration. 

The description of the factory from The Long Day derives 
its appeal through our comprehension of the characters there 
and of their feelings. The story of Little Rosebud as told by 
Mrs. Smith is not presented to the reader as the mere resume 
of a plot. It is description of the woman's idea of romance. 
We see the events in that absurd tale entirely through the 
emotions of the narrator. After Mrs. Smith has established the 
character of the story through the contagion of her personality, 
it moves along almost independently of the narrator, so that 
when it is over, it illumines Mrs. Smith and the life of all the 
girls in the shop. 

In the passage from Far from the Madding Crowd called 



HOW TO SEE LIFE IMAGINATIVELY 207 

"Thunder and Lightning" the reader is made to apprehend 
in another way the emotional values of a scene. It is the 
unusual position of the characters that contributes the imagi- 
native quality to the situation of which they are the animating 
center. A violent thunder-storm makes a series of unusually 
vivid experiences for a man on the top of a wheat stack who 
is working furiously to protect it from the impending rain. 
He is high in the air, alive to the danger of his position and 
the need for strenuous labor. The vividness of his emotion 
results from the storm and we see the storm through his intensity. 

The emotions can never be aroused to swiftness and keenness 
by reality unless the senses are vividly awake. Thus we come to 
an important axiom. To see life imaginatively is to see the 
concrete, sensuous details of which it is composed. The im- 
aginative person sees not to name reality but to "sense" it. 
He has a sense not for events but for being. The external world 
comes into his mind like sunshine, not to be converted into 
motor energy, but to be broken up into all its glorious prismatic 
colors. 

Mr. Max Eastman in his Enjoyment of Poetry calls our at- 
tention to a memorandum in an early diary of Helen Keller. 
"Nancy was cross. Cross is cry and kick." The imaginative 
person always sees cross as cry and kick. "Jones butts into 
every discussion and settles every question by pretending 
omniscience," says the student who is interested in the meaning 
of events rather than in their aspect. The student who feels 
the nature of the objectionable comrade and is skillful enough 
to make that feeling articulate would be more apt to say, 
"I can't stand Jones's pointed chin, his superior shrug and 
grin, and his affectedly cautious, 'As a matter of fact I suspect 
that none of you are right. The truth seems to be this.' " 

Narrative poetry exists as a literary form precisely because 
in it plot and "things doing" are so far subordinated to the 
sense of being that they seem only a pulse of that more funda- 



208 HOW TO SEE LIFE IMAGINATIVELY 

mental reality. In the following passage from Lamia Keats 
shows us Lycius, not seeing Lamia to recognize her, but filled 
with a sudden consciousness of Lamia's being: 

" There she stood 
About a young bird's flutter from the wood 



While her robes flaunted with the daffodils. 

Ah happy Lycius! for she was a maid 

More beautiful than ever twisted braid, 

Or sighed, or blush'd, or on a spring flower'd lea 

Spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy." 

Thus sensed the girl speaks intimately to Lycius's inmost 
feelings and through his to our own. To behold a person thus 
is a unique and pristine experience. The senses called upon 
by every line bring to the mind at each instant a vivid image, 
which in turn starts a train of emotions upon its adventurous 
course. An appeal to the mind's inevitably close attention 
to fresh experience by way of the senses can be made as 
forcibly in pure narration as in descriptive forms of writing. 
Read Gerard and the Bear and see how much of the breath- 
less intensity of that tale is caused by the uninterrupted 
succession of images. 

Figures of speech arouse feeling immediately because they 
endow objects with a new sensuous interest. "Out leaped the 
fifth flash," writes Hardy, "with the spring of a serpent and 
the shout of a fiend." And it has ceased to be a thunder-clap 
like others we have known, because it makes a unique and 
utterly fresh appeal to the eye and ear. 

The facts presented in the passage from A Life for a Life 
are given imaginative reach in this way. Through the in- 
fluence of a fanciful resemblance, the familiar phenomena 
of a city seen by night come to the emotions with a fresh direct- 
ness. The city is conceived as being a huge living creature 
with a vast purposeful life of its own. The various mani- 



HOW TO SEE LIFE IMAGINATIVELY 209 

festations of activity in a city are presented in a fashion con- 
sistent with this initial conception. The men crossing the 
bridge are no longer human beings, but little atoms alternately 
disgorged and sucked up by the insatiate monster. Thus 
regarded, the struggling human creatures with their hard, set 
faces seem "as though leaning against the blast of destiny that 
threatened to sweep them forth into the void." Finally the 
word Success, gleaming on a great electric sign hung aloft in 
the night, is more than that. It is the text according to which 
the leviathan orders its life. All the details of the picture 
speak to the emotions strongly because they are charged with 
the energy of the initial conception. 

There are thus two distant aspects of imaginative visions of 
life. The first demands sympathetic discovery of latent emotion 
in men and women. The imaginative observer of life will see 
the rich emotional texture of a situation in which more than one 
human being bears a part. He will see the feelings of the char- 
acters in which events are imbedded, and he will see the feelings 
of each figure in their complex entirety in spite of momentary 
partisanship for a hero or heroine. In purely descriptive writing 
he presents even landscape tinged by the carefully depicted 
emotions of some human being. 

The second aspect of this imaginative vision concerns the 
channels through which the emotions reach their original 
discoverer and through which they pass from him to the readers. 
The author must speak the language of the emotions. He must 
employ the specific fact and sensuous image which enables a 
man not to name an object but to allow his mind to be directly 
conscious of its being. When a writer has performed both of 
these high duties, he has transformed a raw fact of life into a 
radiating center of art. 



XIV. IN THE FIRELIGHT 1 

Margaret Thomson 

[^University of Wisconsin] 

"Oh, it is so good to have you at home again, dear, even 
though I know that it is only for a few days. Almost every 
evening I sit here by the grate-fire waiting for your father, and 
shut my eyes, trying to pretend that my daughter is in the big 
chair opposite, bent over a book, and not away off at college. 
But it is hard even with my eyes closed, because, you see, 
I can never quite make myself forget that the chair is empty." 

Marjorie leaned over and took her mother's hand. 

"I know, Mother mine, I have tried and tried to make you 
sit beside me at dinner time in the big dining-room with all its 
chatter; but you will never stay. You are always turning up, 
instead, in the little blue dining-room at home, with Grandma's 
white head on your right, and Bob's face alight with an impish 
grin as he remarks, 'Gee! I wish you'd seen the substitute 
we had at school to-day, Dad;' and then I swallow hard and 
plunge desperately into the funniest story I know till the table 
rocks with fun." 

Understandingly mother and daughter smiled at each other. 
Then both fell into a sweet, intimate silence as they gazed into 
the glowing coals. Marjorie broke the stillness. 

"Speaking of Bob, Mother, how he is growing up! Why, 
he's two inches taller than I already and so important now that 
he is in High School. When I left home he wouldn't look at 
a girl either, and now — " 

"Yes, now," finished her mother, "it's 'Jean' this and 
'Bess' that and 'Dorothy' something else! And he's reached 

1 This story is discussed in the introduction to Part III, pages 204-205. 



MARGARET THOMSON 211 

the stage, too, where he wants to learn to dance," she added 
with a troubled frown. 

Marjorie looked up quickly. "You are going to let him, 
Mother?" 

Slowly the older woman shook her head. "No, dear, your 
father feels that it is not best, just as he always has." 

"I don't see why, Mother; I don't see why! I have been 
dancing a little at school this year. You told me I might, you 
know, if I still wanted to, and I cannot see any harm in it; I 
cannot!" 

Wearily the mother sighed. "Why go through the whole 
question again, dear? You know your father's views. And 
especially with his position in the church he feels that it 
would be ill-advised, that there would be a great deal of 
criticism." 

"Bother the criticism!" came the impatient reply. Then 
after a pause in which both women stared motionless into the 
heart of the fire, the young voice rang out sharply: "Listen 
to me, Mother! Bob will do it anyway! I didn't. I am a 
girl; and I have done what you wished all this time until I left 
home and you told me I might dance if I cared to. But Bob is 
a boy. And if he wants to dance, he will dance! He'll do it 
anyway!" 

Abruptly the voice ceased, and in a moment the mother's 
answer came firmly and a little coldly. 

"No, Marjorie, I think you are mistaken. I do not believe 
that Robert will ever dance without our consent." 

Again silence settled down upon them — a heavy, uncom- 
fortable silence, this time, that was hard to break. Outside 
the windows the twilight deepened; inside, the gloom darkened 
to night except where the tiny, flickering flames threw dancing 
shadows across the polished floor. Over both faces hovered a 
hurt look of pain and misunderstanding. Slowly the moments 
passed. Then the mother spoke gently. 



212 IN THE FIRELIGHT 

"You see, dear, your father wants Robert to wait awhile 
until he is sure of what he is doing. He is so young yet. How 
can he know what is right and wrong? But if, when the boy 
grows older, old enough to judge for himself, and still wants 
to dance, and feels that there is no harm in it," she sighed, 
"why, then — " 

"Yes, then," broke in the girl's voice passionately. "Then 
you will say, 'Go ahead and dance'; and I know well enough 
what that means. You are a girl. You go away to college. 
You are out of things from the very beginning. Everybody 
dances; you don't. Everyone stares in surprise at you and 
exclaims, 'You have never danced? Why, how very odd!' 
You make up your mind to learn. One of the girls takes you 
in hand. You go to your first dance, a mixer or something, 
where anybody is welcome. You are awkward and uncom- 
fortable. Everybody seems to be looking straight at you, 
and everybody else 'knows how.' It is no wonder that your 
partner thinks you a 'perfect stick'! And then," she hur- 
ried on, utterly oblivious, in her earnestness, of the growing 
pain and sorrow on her mother's face, "perhaps later, some one 
invites you to a dance — a real dance! You are too happy 
for words and then with a shock you remember the blundering 
steps and smile coldly, 'I am very sorry, Mr. Williams, but I 
do not dance.' " 

Hands clenched together in her lap, the mother sat and 
listened dully to the cruel young voice. 

"Then you are determined that you will learn. But there is so 
much to do. You are overwhelmingly busy and the other girls 
are busy too. Gradually you stop going even to the mixers. 
You don't meet any men outside the classroom. You stay in 
your room and study while the other girls have a gay time. 
And they call you a grind! Oh," the voice rose shrilly, "it's 
a mistake — it is not fair! I say let Bob dance. Let him!" 

"My dear, my dear!" breathed the older woman, wincing. 






MARGARET THOMSON 213 

With a startled glance the girl looked at her mother, and then 
with a cry was on her knees beside her. 

" Oh, Mother, Mother, I didn't mean to hurt you! I wouldn't 
have said it for the world if I had thought." 

"Hush, dear, hush," whispered her mother, gathering her 
close. "I am so glad you did tell me. I'll talk the matter 
over with your father again. There, I hear his step on the 
porch now. Run and open the door." 



XV. CITY SMOKE 1 
Booth Tarkington 

There is a midland city in the heart of fair, open country, 
a dirty and wonderful city nesting dingily in the fog of its 
own smoke. The stranger must feel the dirt before he feels 
the wonder, for the dirt will be upon him instantly. It will be 
upon him and within him, since he must breathe it, and he may 
care for no further proof that wealth is here better loved than 
cleanliness; but whether he cares or not, the negligently tended 
streets incessantly press home the point, and so do the necked 
and grimy citizens. At a breeze he must smother in whirl- 
pools of dust, and if he should decline at any time to inhale the 
smoke he has the meager alternative of suicide. 

The smoke is like the bad breath of a giant panting for more 
and more riches. He gets them and pants the fiercer, smelling 
and swelling prodigiously. He has a voice, a hoarse voice, hot 
and rapacious, trained to one tune: " Wealth! I will get Wealth! 
I will make Wealth! I will sell Wealth for more Wealth! 
My house shall be dirty, my garment shall be dirty, and I will 
foul my neighbor so that he cannot be clean — but I will get 
Wealth! There shall be no clean thing about me: my wife 
shall be dirty, and my child shall be dirty, but I will get Wealth!" 
And yet it is not wealth that he is so greedy for; what the 
giant really wants is hasty riches. To get these he squanders 
wealth upon the four winds, for wealth is in the smoke. 

Not quite so long ago as a generation, there was no panting 
giant here, no heaving, grimy city; there was but a pleasant 
big town of neighborly people who had understanding of one 

1 Reprinted from The Turmoil with the kind permission of Harper and Brothers 
and of the author. This story is discussed in the introduction to Part III, pages 
205-206. 



BOOTH TARKINGTON 215 

another, being, on the whole, much of the same type. It was 
a leisurely and kindly place — "homelike," it was called — 
and when the visitor had been taken through the State Asylum 
for the Insane and made to appreciate the view of the cemetery 
from a little hill, his host's duty as Baedeker was done. The 
good burghers were given to jogging comfortably about in phae- 
tons or in surreys for a family drive on Sunday. No one was 
very rich; few were very poor; the air was clean, and there was 
time to live. 

But there was a spirit abroad in the land, and it was strong 
here as elsewhere — a spirit that had moved in the depths 
of the American soil and labored there, sweating, till it stirred 
the surface, roved the mountains, and emerged, tangible and 
monstrous, the god of all good American hearts — Bigness. 
And that god wrought the panting giant. 

In the souls of the burghers there had always been the pro- 
found longing for size. Year by year the longing increased until 
it became an accumulated force: We must Grow! We must be 
Big! We must be Bigger! Bigness means Money! And the 
thing began to happen; their longing became a mighty Will. 
We must be Bigger! Bigger! Bigger! Get people here! Coax 
them here! Bribe them! Swindle them into coming, if you 
must, but get them! Shout them into coming! Deafen them 
into coming! Any kind of people; all kinds of people! We 
must be Bigger! Blow! Boost! Brag! Kill the fault-finder! 
Scream and bellow to the Most High: Bigness is patriotism 
and honor! Bigness is love and life and happiness! Bigness is 
Money! We want Bigness! 

They got it. From all the states the people came; thinly 
at first, and slowly, but faster and faster in thicker and thicker 
swarms as the quick years went by. White people came, and 
black people and brown people and yellow people; the negroes 
came from the South by the thousands and thousands, multi- 
plying by other thousands and thousands faster than they 



216 CITY SMOKE 

could die. From the four quarters of the earth the people 
came, the broken and the unbroken, the tame and the wild — 
Germans, Irish, Italians, Hungarians, Scotch, Welsh, English, 
French, Swiss, Swedes, Norwegians, Greeks, Poles, Russian 
Jews, Dalmatians, Armenians, Rumanians, Bulgarians, Ser- 
vians, Persians, Syrians, Japanese, Chinese, Turks, and every 
hybrid that these could propagate. And if there were no 
Eskimos nor Patagonians, what other human strain that earth 
might furnish failed to swim and bubble in this crucible? 

With Bigness came the new machinery and the rush; the 
streets began to roar and rattle, the houses to tremble; the 
pavements were worn under the tread of hurrying multitudes. 
The old, leisurely, quizzical look of the faces was lost in some- 
thing harder and warier; and a cockney type began to emerge 
discernibly — a cynical young mongrel, barbaric of feature, 
muscular and cunning; dressed in good fabrics fashioned ap- 
parently in imitation of the sketches drawn by newspaper 
comedians. The female of his kind came with him — a pale 
girl, shoddy and a little rouged; and they communicated in a 
nasal argot, mainly insolences and elisions. Nay, the common 
speech of the people showed change : in place of the old midland 
vernacular, irregular but clean, and not unwholesomely drawl- 
ing, a jerky dialect of coined metaphors began to be heard, held 
together by gunnas and gottas and much fostered by the public 
journals. 

The city piled itself high in the center, tower on tower for 
a nucleus, and spread itself out over the plain, mile after mile; 
and in its vitals, like benevolent bacilli contending with ma- 
levolent in the body of a man, missions and refuges offered what 
resistance they might to the saloons and all the hells that cities 
house and shelter. Temptation and ruin were ready commodi- 
ties on the market for purchase by the venturesome; high- 
waymen walked the streets at night and sometimes killed; 
snatching thieves were busy everywhere in the dusk; while 



BOOTH TARKINGTON 217 

house-breakers were a common apprehension and frequent 
reality. Life itself was somewhat safer from intentional de- 
struction than it was in medieval Rome during a faction war — 
though the Roman murderer was more like to pay for his deed 
— but death or mutilation beneath the wheels lay in ambush 
at every crossing. 

The politicians let the people make all the laws they liked; 
it did not matter much, and the taxes went up, which is good for 
politicians. Law-making was a pastime of the people; nothing 
pleased them more. Singular fermentation of their humor, 
they even had laws forbidding dangerous speed. More marvel- 
ous still, they had a law forbidding smoke! They forbade 
chimneys to smoke and they forbade cigarettes to smoke. 
They made laws for all things and forgot them immediately; 
though sometimes they would remember after a while, and 
hurry to make new laws that the old laws should be enforced — • 
and then forget both new and old. Wherever enforcement 
threatened Money or Votes — or wherever it was too much 
bother — it became a joke. Influence was the law. 

So the place grew. And it grew strong. 

Straightway when he came, each man fell to the same worship: 

Give me of thyself, O Bigness: 
Power to get more power! 
Riches to get more riches! 
Give me of thy sweat that I may sweat more! 
Give me Bigness to get more Bigness to myself, 
O Bigness, for Thine is the Power and the Glory! And 
there is no end but Bigness, ever and for ever! 

The Sheridan Building was the biggest skyscraper; the 
Sheridan Trust Company was the biggest of its kind, and 
Sheridan himself had been the biggest builder and breaker 
and truster and buster under the smoke. He had come from a 
country cross-roads, at the beginning of the growth, and he had 
gone up and down in the booms and relapses of that period; 



218 CITY SMOKE 

but each time he went down he rebounded a little higher, until 
finally, after a year of overwork and anxiety — the latter not 
decreased by a chance, remote but possible, of recuperation from 
the former in the penitentiary — he found himself on top, 
with solid substance under his feet; and thereafter " played it 
safe." But his hunger to get was unabated, for it was in the 
very bones of him and grew fiercer. 

He was the city incarnate. He loved it, calling it God's 
country, as he called the smoke Prosperity, breathing the 
dingy cloud with relish. And when soot fell upon his cuff he 
chuckled; he could have kissed it. "It's good! It's good! " he 
said, and smacked his lips in gusto. " Good, clean soot; it's our 
life-blood, God bless it!" The smoke was one of his great enthu- 
siasms; he laughed at a committee of plaintive housewives who 
called to beg his aid against it. "Smoke's what brings your 
husbands' money home on Saturday night," he told them, 
jovially. "Smoke may hurt your little shrubberies in the 
front yard some, but it's the catarrhal climate and the adenoids 
that starts your chuldern coughing. Smoke makes the climate 
better. Smoke means good health: it makes the people wash 
more. They have to wash so much they wash off the microbes. 
You go home and ask your husbands what smoke puts in their 
pockets out o' the pay-roll — and you'll come around next time 
to get me to turn out more smoke instead o' chokin' it off!" 



XVI. SCENES IN FACTORIES 1 

Margaret Richardson 

[[A young woman from rural Pennsylvania comes to New York in search of a 
job — any one of the million jobs in the great city. Though she is a person of 
some education and much innate refinement, she is without any special training, 
and she is also without money or friends. She therefore looks for work, like any- 
body else, and takes what she can get. We see her starting in at a box factory. 
The reader should notice how immediately he finds himself in the factory with her, 
in the noise and whirl of it, and how the "pitch" of the whole scene is in factory 
key. The sense of noise and whirr never ceases, and yet there is no sense of strain 
or confusion. The next time the reader visits a factory it may interest him to 
test the realism of this composition.] 



"Miss Kinzer! Here's a lady wants to learn," shrilled the 
high nasal voice. "Miss Kinzer! Where's Miss Kinzer? 
Oh, here you are!" as a young woman emerged from behind 
a pile of pasteboard boxes. "I've a learner for you, Miss 
Kinzer. She's a green girl, but she looks likely, and I want 
you to give her a good chance. Better put her on table-work 
to begin with." And with that injunction the little old maid 
hopped away, leaving me to the scrutiny and cross-questioning 
of a rather pretty woman of twenty-eight or thirty. 

"Ever worked in a factory before?" she began, with lofty 
indifference, as if it didn't matter whether I had or had not. 

"No." 

"Where did you work?" 

"I never worked any place before." 

"Oh-h!" There was a world of meaning, as I afterward 
discovered, in Miss Kinzer's long-drawn-out "Oh-h!" In this 
instance she looked up quickly, with an obvious display of 

1 Reprinted from The Long Day with the kind permission of The Century Com- 
pany and of the author. 



220 SCENES IN FACTORIES 

interest, as if she had just unearthed a remarkable specimen in 
one who had never worked at anything before. 

"You're not used to work, then? " she remarked insinuatingly, 
straightening up from the rude desk where she sat like the 
judge of a police-court. She was now all attention. 

"Well, not exactly that," I replied, nettled by her manner 
and, above all, by her way of putting things. "I have worked 
before, but never at factory- work." 

"Then why didn't you say so?" 

She now opened her book and inscribed my name therein. 

"Where do you live?" 

"Over in East Fourteenth Street," I replied mechanically, 
forgetting for the moment the catastrophe that had rendered 
me more homeless than ever. 

"Home?" 

"No, I room." Then, reading only too quickly an unpleasant 
interpretation in the uplifted eyebrows, a disagreeable curiosity 
mirrored in the brown eyes beneath, I added hastily, "I have no 
home. My folks are all dead." 

What impression this bit of information made I was unable 
to determine as I followed her slender, slightly bowed figure 
across the busy, roaring workroom. 

"Be careful you don't get hurt," she cried, as we threaded a 
narrow passage in and out among the stamping, throbbing 
machinery, where, by the light that filtered through the grimy 
windows, I got vague, confused glimpses of girl-faces shining 
like stars out of this dark, fearful chaos of revolving belts 
and wheels, and above the bedlam noises came girlish laughter 
and song. 

"Good morning, Carrie!" one quick-witted toiler sang out as 
she spied the new girl in tow of the forewoman, and suddenly 
the whole room had taken up the burden of the song. 

"Don't mind them," my conductor remarked. "They 
don't mean nothing by it — watch out there for your head I " 



MARGARET RICHARDSON 221 

Safe through the outlying ramparts of machinery, we entered 
the domain of the table- workers, and I was turned over toPhcebe, 
a tall girl in tortoise earrings and curl-papers. Phcebe was 
assigned to "learn" me in the trade of "finishing." Somewhat 
to my surprise, she assumed the task joyfully, and helped me 
off with my coat and hat. From the loud-mouthed tirades as 
to "Annie Kinzer's nerve," it became evident that the assign- 
ment of the job of "learner" is one to cause heartburning 
jealousies, and that Phcebe, either because of some special 
adaptability or through favoritism, got the lion's share of 
novices. 

"That's right, Phcebe; hog every new girl that comes along!" 
amiably bawled a bright-faced, tidy young woman who answered 
to the name of Mrs. Smith. Mrs. Smith worked briskly as she 
talked, and the burden of her conversation appeared to be 
the heaping of this sort of good-natured invective upon the 
head of her chum — or, as she termed it, her "lady-friend," 
Phcebe. The amiability with which Mrs. Smith dealt out her 
epithets was only equaled by the perfect good nature of her 
victim, who replied to each and all of them with a musically 
intoned, "Hot air!" 

"Hot a — i — r!" The clear tones of Phcebe's soprano set 
the echoes ringing all over the great work-room. In and out 
among the aisles and labyrinthine passages that wind through 
towering piles of boxes, from the thundering machinery far 
over on the other side of the "loft" to the dusky recess of the 
uttermost table, the musical cry reverberated. 

"Hot a — i — r!" Every few minutes, all through the long, 
weary day, Phcebe found occasion for sounding that magic call. 

"The rest of the ladies get up their backs something awful," 
Phcebe explained as she dragged a big green pasteboard box 
from beneath the work-table. "They say she gives me more'n 
my share of learners because I'm easy to get on with, I guess, 
and don't play no tricks on them. . . . You have a right to 



222 SCENES IN FACTORIES 

put your things in here along with my lunch. Them girls 
is like to do 'most anything to a new girl's duds if you wuz to 
hang them in the coat-room. Them Ginneys'll do 'most any- 
thing. Wuz you downstairs when Celia Polatta got into the 
fight with Rosie?" 

"I just missed it," she sighed in reply to my affirmative. 
"I was born unlucky." 

"Hello, Phcebe! So you've hogged another!" a new voice 
called across the table, and I put a question. 

" Why do they all want to teach the new girl? I should think 
they'd be glad to be rid of the trouble." 

"You mean learn her? Why, because the girl that learns 
the green hand gets all her work checked on to her own card 
while she's learning how. Never worked in a box-factory 
before? " I shook my head. 

"I guessed as much. Well, box-making's a good trade. 
Have you an apron?" 

As I had not, I was then ordered to "turn my skirt," in 
order that I might receive the inevitable coat of glue and paste 
on its inner rather than on its outer surface. I gently de- 
murred against this very slovenly expedient. 

"All right; call it hot air if you want to. I s'pose you know 
it all," tossing her curl-papers with scorn. "You know bet- 
ter'n me, of course. Most learners do think they knows it all. 
Now looky here, I've been here six years, and I've learned lots 
of green girls, and I never had one as didn't think she hadn't 
ought to turn her skirt. The ladies I'm used to working with 
likes to walk home looking decent and respectable, no difference 
what they're like other times." 

With the respectability of my ladyhood thus impeached, 
and lest I infringe upon the cast-iron code of box-factory eti- 
quette, there was nothing to do but yield. I unhooked my 
skirt, dropped it to the floor, and stepped out of it in a trice, 
anxious to do anything to win back the good will of Phcebe. 



MARGARET RICHARDSON 223 

Instantly she brightened, and good humor once more flashed 
over her grimy features. 

"H-m! that's the stuff! There's one thing you hadn't 
ought to forget, and mind, I'm speaking as one lady-friend to 
another when I tell you these things — and that is, that you have 
a right to do as the other girls in the factory or you'll never get 
'long with them. If you don't they'll get down on you, sure's 
pussy's a cat; and then they'll make it hot for you with com- 
plaining to the forelady. And then she'll get down on you 
after while too, and won't give you no good orders to work on; 
and — well, it's just this way: a girl mustn't be odd." 

Continuing her philosophy of success, Phcebe proceeded to 
initiate me into the first process of my job, which consisted in 
pasting slippery, sticky strips of muslin over the corners of the 
rough brown boxes that were piled high about us in frail, totter- 
ing towers reaching to the ceiling, which was trellised over with 
a network of electric wires and steam-pipes. Two hundred and 
fifty of these boxes remained to be finished on the particular 
order upon which Phcebe was working. Each must be given 
eight muslin strips, four on the box and four on its cover; two 
tapes, inserted with a hair-pin through awl-holes; two tissue 
" flies," to tuck over the bonnet soon to nestle underneath; 
four pieces of gay paper lace to please madame's eye when the 
lid is lifted; and three labels, one on the bottom, one on the 
top, and one bearing the name of a Fifth Avenue modiste on 
an escutcheon of gold and purple. 

The job, as it progressed, entailed ceaseless shoving and 
shifting and lifting. In order that we might not be walled in 
completely by our cumbersome materials, every few minutes 
we bore tottering piles across the floor to the "strippers." 

These latter, who were small girls, covered the sides with 
glazed paper on machines; and as fast as each box was thus 
covered it was tossed to the "turner-in," a still smaller girl, 
who turned in the overlapping edge of the strip, after which 



224 SCENES IN FACTORIES 

the box was ready to come back to the table for the next process 
at our hands. 

By ten o'clock, with Mrs. Smith's gay violet-boxes and our 
own bonnet-boxes, we had built a snug bower all round our 
particular table. Through its paste-board walls the din and 
the songs came but faintly. My mates' tongues flew as fast 
as their fingers. The talk was chiefly devoted to clothes, 
Phoebe's social activities, and the evident prosperity of Mrs. 
Smith's husband's folks, among whom it appeared she had only 
recently appeared as " Jeff's" bride. Having exhausted the 
Smiths, she again gave Phoebe the floor by asking: 

"Are you going to-night?" 

"Well, I should say! Don't I look it?" 

To determine by Phoebe's appearance where she might be 
going were an impossibility to the uninitiated, for her dress was 
an odd combination of the extremes of wretchedness and luxury. 
A woefully torn and much-soiled shirt-waist; a gorgeous gold 
watch worn on her breast like a medal; a black taffeta skirt, 
which, under the glue-smeared apron, emitted an unmistakable 
frou-frou; three Nethersole bracelets on her wrist; and her 
feet incased in colossal shoes, broken and stringless. The latter 
she explained to Mrs. Smith. 

"I just swiped a pair of paw's and brought them along this 
morning, or I'd be dished for getting into them high heels 
to-night. My corns and bunions 'most killed me yesterday — 
they always do break out bad about Easter. My pleasure 
club," she explained, turning to me — "my pleasure club, 
'The Moonlight Maids,' give a ball to-night." Which fact 
likewise explained the curl-papers as well as the slattern shirt- 
waist, donned to save the evening bodice worn to the factory 
that morning and now tucked away in a big box under the table. 

A whole side of our pretty violet-sprinkled bower caved in as 
a little "turner-in" lurched against it in passing with a top- 
heavy column of boxes. Through the opening daylight is visible 



MARGARET RICHARDSON 225 

once more, and from the region of the machines is heard a chorus 
of voices singing "The Fatal Wedding." 

"Hot a — i — r!" Phcebe intones derisively. "It's a wonder 
Angelina wouldn't get a new song. Them strippers sing that 
•'Fatal Wedding' week in and week out." 

We worked steadily, and as the hours dragged on I began 
to grow dead tired. The awful noise and confusion, the terrific 
heat, the foul smell of the glue, and the agony of breaking 
ankles and blistered hands seemed almost unendurable. 

At last the hour-hand stood at twelve, and suddenly, out of 
the turmoil, a strange quiet fell over the great mill. The vi- 
brations that had shaken the whole structure to its very foun- 
dations now gradually subsided; the wheels stayed their endless 
revolutions; the flying belts now hung from the ceiling like long 
black ribbons. Out of the stillness girl-voices and girl-laughter 
echoed weirdly, like a horn blown in a dream, while sweeter and 
clearer than ever rang Phoebe's soprano "Hot air!" 

The girls lunched in groups of ten and twelve. Each clique 
had its leader. By an unwritten law I was included among those 
who rallied around Phoebe, most of whom she had " learned" 
at some time or other, as she was now "learning" me. The 
luncheons were divested of their newspaper wrappings and spread 
over the ends of tables, on discarded box-lids held across the 
knees — in fact, any place convenience or sociability dictated. 
Then followed a friendly exchange of pickles and cake. A 
dark, swarthy girl, whom they called "Goldy" Courtleigh, 
was generous in the distribution of the lukewarm contents of a 
broken-nosed tea-pot, which was constantly replenished by 
application to the hot- water faucet. 

Although we had a half -hour, luncheon was swallowed quickly 
by most of the girls, eager to steal away to a sequestered bower 
among the boxes, there to lose themselves in paper-backed 
romance. A few of less literary taste were content to nibble 
ice-cream sandwiches and gossip. Dress, the inevitable mas- 



226 SCENES IN FACTORIES 

querade ball, murders and fires, were favorite topics of dis- 
cussion, — the last always with lowered voices and deep-drawn 
breathing. For fire is the box-maker's terror, the grim specter 
that always haunts her, and with good reason does she always 
start at the word. 

"I'm always afraid," declared Phoebe, "and I always run to 
the window and get ready to jump the minute I hear the alarm." 

"I don't," mused Angelina; "I haven't sense enough to 
jump. I faint dead away. There'd be no chance for me if a 
fire ever broke out here." 

Once or twice there was mention of beaux and "steady 
fellows," but the flesh-and-blood man of everyday life did not 
receive as much attention in this lunch chat as did the heroes 
of the story-books. 

While it was evident, of course, from scattered comments, 
that box-makers are constantly marrying, it was likewise 
apparent that they have not sufficient imagination to invest 
their hard-working, sweat-grimed sweethearts with any halo 
of romance. 

Promptly at half -past twelve the awakening machinery 
called us back to the workaday world. Story-books were 
tucked away, and their entranced readers dragged themselves 
back to the machines and steaming paste-pots, to dream and 
to talk as they worked, not of their own fellows of last night's 
masquerade, but of bankers and mill-owners who in fiction 
have wooed and won and honorably wedded just such poor 
toilers as they themselves. 

II 

"Don't you never read no story-books?" Mrs. Smith asked, 
stirring the paste-pot preparatory to the afternoon's work. 
She looked at me curiously out of her shrewd, snapping dark 
eyes as she awaited my answer. I was conscious that Mrs. 
Smith didn't like me for some reason or other, and I was anxious 



MARGARET RICHARDSON 227 

to propitiate her. I was pretty certain she thought me a bore- 
some prig, and I determined I'd prove I wasn't. My confes- 
sion of an omnivorous appetite for all sorts of story-books 
had the desired effect; and when I confessed further that I 
liked best of all a real, tender, sentimental love-story, she 
asked amiably: 

"How do you like Little Rosebud's Lovers?" 

"I've never read that," I replied. "Is it good? " 

"It's fine," interposed Phcebe; "but I like Woven on Fate's 
Loom better — don't you?" The last addressed to Mrs. Smith. 

"No, I can't say as that's my impinion," returned our vis-a- 
vis, with a judicious tipping of the head to one side as she soused 
her dripping paste-brush over the strips. "Not but what 
Woven on Fate's Loom is a good story in its way, either, for them 
that likes that sort of story. But I think Little Rosebud's 
Lovers is more int'res^ing, besides being better wrote." 

"And that's just what I don't like about it," retorted Phcebe, 
her fingers traveling like lightning up and down the corners of 
the boxes. "You like this hot-air talk, and I don't; and the 
way them fellows and girls shoot hot-air at each other in that 
there Little Rosebud's Lovers is enough to beat the street- 
cars!" 

"What is it about?" I asked with respectful interest, address- 
ing the question to Mrs. Smith, who gave promise of being a 
more serious reviewer than the flippant Phcebe. Mrs. Smith 
took a bite of gingerbread and began : 

"It's about a fair, beautiful young girl by the name of Rose- 
bud Arden. Her pa was a judge, and they lived in a grand 
mansion in South Car'lina. Little Rosebud — that's what 
everybody called her — had a stepsister Maud. They was both 
beauties, only Maud didn't have a lovely disposition like Little 
Rosebud. A Harvard gradjate by the name of Percy Fielding 
got stuck on Little Rosebud for the wealth she was to get from 
her pa, and she was terrible stuck on him. She was stuck on 



228 SCENES IN FACTORIES 

him for fair, though not knowing he was a villian of the deepest 
dye. That's what the book called him. He talked her into 
marrying him clandestinely. Maud and her mother put up 
a job to get rid of Little Rosebud, so Maud could get all the 
money. So they told lies to her pa, who loved her something 
awful; and one night, when she came in after walking in the 
grand garden with her husband, who nobody knew she was 
married to, she found herself locked out. Then she went to 
the hotel where he was staying, and told him what had happened; 
but he turned her down flat when he heard it, for he didn't 
want nothing to do with her when she wasn't to get her pa's 
money; and then — " 

She stopped her cornering to inspect my work, which had not 
flagged an instant. Mrs. Smith took another bite of ginger- 
bread, and continued with increasing animation: 

"And then Little Rosebud turned away into the night with 
a low cry, just as if a dagger had been punched into her heart 
and turned around slow. She was only sixteen years old, 
and she had been brought up in luxury and idolized by her 
father; and all of a sudden she found herself homeless, with 
nowheres to sleep and no money to get a room at the hotel, 
and scorned by the man that had sworn to protect her. Her 
pa had cursed her, too, something awful, so that he burst a 
blood-vessel a little while afterwards and died before morning. 
Only Little Rosebud never found this out, for she took the 
midnight express and came up here to New York, where her 
aunt lived, only she didn't know the street-number." 

"Where did she get the money to come to New York with?" 
interrupted the practical Phcebe. "That's something I don't 
understand. If she didn't have no money to hire a room at a 
hotel down in South Carolina for overnight, I'd like to know 
where she got money for a railroad ticket." 

"Well, that's just all you know about them swells," retorted 
Mrs. Smith. "I suppose a rich man's daughter like that can 



MARGARET RICHARDSON 229 

travel around all over the country on a pass. And saying she 
didn't have a pass, it's only a story and not true anyway. 

"She met a fellow on the train that night who was a villian 
for fair!" she went on. "His name was Mr. Paul Howard, and 
he was a corker. Little Rosebud, who was just as innocent as 
they make 'em, fell right into his clutches. He was a terrible 
man; he wouldn't stop at nothing, but he was a very elegant- 
looking gentleman that you'd take anywheres for a banker or 
'Piscopalian preacher. He tipped his hat to Little Rosebud, 
and then she up and asked him if he knew where her aunt, Mrs. 
Waldron, lived. This was nuts for him, and he said yes, that 
Mrs. Waldron was a particular lady-friend of his. When they 
got to New York he offered to take Little Rosebud to her aunt's 
house. And as Little Rosebud hadn't no money, she said 
yes, and the villian called a cab and they started for Brooklyn, 
him laughing to himself all the time, thinking how easily she 
was going to tumble into the trap he was getting fixed for 
her." 

"Hot air!" murmured Phcebe. 

"But while they were rattling over the Brooklyn Bridge, 
another man was following them in another cab — a Wall- 
street broker with barrels of cash. He was Raymond Leslie, 
and a real good man. He'd seen Rosebud get into the cab with 
Paul Howard, who he knew for a villian for fair. They had a 
terrible rumpus, but Raymond Leslie rescued her and took her 
to her aunt's house. It turned out that he was the gentleman- 
friend of Little Rosebud's cousin Ida, the very place they were 
going to. But, riding along in the cab, he fell in love with Little 
Rosebud, and then he was in a terrible pickle because he was 
promised to Ida. Little Rosebud's relations lived real grand, 
and her aunt was real nice to her until she saw she had hooked 
on to Ida's gentleman-friend; then they put her to work in the 
kitchen and treated her terrible. Oh, I tell you she had a time 
of it, for fair. Her aunt was awful proud and wicked, and after 



230 SCENES IN FACTORIES 

while, when she found that Raymond Leslie was going to marry 
Little Rosebud even if they did make a servant of her, she hired 
Paul Howard to drug her and carry her off to an insane asylum 
that he ran up in Westchester County. It was in a lonesome 
place, and was full of girls that he had loved only to grow tired 
of and cast off, and this was the easiest way to get rid of them 
and keep them from spoiling his sport. Once a girl was in love 
with Paul Howard, she loved him till death. He just fascinated 
women like a snake does a bird, and he was hot stuff as long as 
he lasted, but the minute he got tired of you he was a demon 
of cruelty. 

"He did everything he could, when he got Little Rosebud 
here, to get her under his power. He tried his dirty best to 
poison her food, but Little Rosebud was foxy and wouldn't 
touch a bite of anything, but just sat in her cell and watched 
the broiled chicken and fried oysters, and all the other good 
things they sent to tempt her, turn to a dark-purplish hue. 
One night she escaped disguised in the turnkey's daughter's 
dress. Her name was Dora Gray, and Paul Howard had 
blasted her life too, but she worshiped him something awful, 
all the same-ee. Dora Gray gave Little Rosebud a lovely 
dark-red rose that was soaked with deadly poison, so that if 
you touched it to the lips of a person, the person would drop 
dead. She told Little Rosebud to protect herself with it if 
they chased her. But she didn't get a chance to see whether 
it would work or not, for when she heard them coming back of 
her after a while with the bloodhounds barking, she dropped 
with terror down flat on her stummick. She had suffered so 
much she couldn't stand anything more. The doctors said she 
was dead when they picked her up, and they buried her and 
stuck a little white slab on her grave, with 'Rosebud, aged 
sixteen' on it." 

"Hot air!" from the irrepressible Phcebe. 

I felt that courtesy required I should agree upon that point, 



MARGARET RICHARDSON 231 

and I did so, conservatively, venturing to ask the name of the 
author. 

Mrs. Smith mentioned the name of a well-known writer of 
trashy fiction and added, "Didn't you never read none of her 
books?" 

My negative surprised her. Then Phoebe asked: 

"Did you ever read Daphne Vernon; or, A Coronet oj 
Shame?" 

"No, I haven't read them, either," I replied. 

"Oh, mama! Carry me out and let me die!" groaned Mrs. 
Smith, throwing down her paste-brush and falling forward in 
mock agony upon the smeared table. 

"Water! Water!" gasped Phoebe, clutching wildly at her 
throat; "I'm going to faint!" 

"What's the matter? What did I say that wasn't right?" 
I cried, the nature of their antics showing only too plainly that 
I had "put my foot in it" in some unaccountable manner. 
But they paid no attention. Mortified and utterly at sea, I 
watched their convulsed shoulders and heard their smothered 
giggles. Then in a few minutes they straightened up and 
resumed work with the utmost gravity of countenance and 
without a word of explanation. 

"What was it you was as ting?" Phoebe inquired presently, 
with the most innocent air possible. 

"I said I hadn't read the books you mentioned," I replied, 
trying to hide the chagrin and mortification I felt at being so 
ignominiously laughed at. 

"Eyether of them?" chirped Mrs. Smith, with a vicious wink. 

"Eyether of them?" warbled Phoebe in her mocking-bird 
soprano. 

It was my turn to drop the paste-brush now. Eye-ther! 
It must have slipped from my tongue unconsciously. I could 
not remember having ever pronounced the word like that 
before. 



232 SCENES IN FACTORIES 

I didn't feel equal, then and there, to offering them any 
explanation or apologies for the offense. So I simply answered: 

"No; are they very good? are they as good as Little Rosebud's 
Lovers?' 1 

"No, it ain't," said Mrs. Smith, decisively and a little con- 
temptuously; "and it ain't two books, eye-ther; it's all in one 
— Daphne Vernon; or, A Coronet of Shame." 

"Well, now I think it is," put in Phoebe. "Them stories 
with two-handled names is nearly always good. I'll buy a 
book with a two-handled name every time before I'll buy 
one that ain't. I was reading a good one last night that I 
borrowed from Gladys Carringford. It had three handles to its 
name, and they was all corkers." 

"Why don't you spit 'em out?" suggested Mrs. Smith. 
"Tell us what it was." 

"Well, it was Doris; or, The Pride of Pemberton Mills; or, 
Lost in a Fearful Fate's Abyss. What d'ye think of that? " 

"It sounds very int're^ing. Who wrote it?" 

"Charles Garvice," replied Phoebe. " Didn't you ever read 
none of his, e — y — e — ther?" 

"No, I must say I never did," I answered, ignoring their 
mischievous raillery with as much grace as I could summon, 
but taking care to choose my words as so to avoid further 
pitfalls. 

"And did you never read none of Charlotte M. Braeme's?" 
drawled Mrs. Smith, with remorseless cruelty — "none of 
Charlotte M. Braeme's, eye ther?" 

"No." 

"Nor none by Efiie Adelaide Rowlands, e — y— e — ther?" 
still persisted Mrs. Smith. 

"No; none by her." 

"E— y — e — ther!" Both my tormentors now raised their 
singing-voices into a high, clear, full-blown note of derisive 
music, held it for a brief moment at a dizzy altitude, and 



MARGARET RICHARDSON 233 

then in soft, long-drawn-out cadences returned to earth and 
speaking- voices again. 

"What kind of story-books do you read, then?" they de- 
manded. To which I replied with the names of a dozen or 
more of the simple, every-day classics that the school-boy 
and -girl are supposed to have read. They had never heard of 
David Copper field or of Dickens. Nor had they ever heard of 
Gulliver's Travels, nor of The Vicar of Wakefield. They had 
heard the name "Robinson Crusoe," but they did not know 
it was the name of an entrancing romance. Little Women, 
John Halifax, Gentleman, The Cloister and the Hearth, Les 
Miserables, were also unknown, unheard-of literary treasures. 
They were equally ignorant of the existence of the conventional 
Sunday-school romance. They stared at me in amazement 
when I rattled off a heterogeneous assortment from the fecund 
pens of Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney, "Pansy," Amanda M. Douglas, 
and similar good-goody writers for good-goody girls; their 
only remarks being that their titles didn't sound interesting. 
I spoke enthusiastically of Little Women, telling them how I 
had read it four times, and that I meant to read it again some 
day. Their curiosity was aroused over the unheard-of thing 
of anybody ever wanting to read any book more than once, 
and they pressed me to reciprocate by repeating the story for 
them, which I did with great accuracy of statement, and with 
genuine pleasure to myself at being given an opportunity to 
introduce anybody to Meg and Jo and all the rest of that de- 
lightful March family. When I had finished, Phcebe stopped 
her cornering and Mrs. Smith looked up from her label-pasting. 

"Why, that's no story at all," the latter declared. 

"Why, no," echoed Phoebe; "that's no story — that's just 
everyday happenings. I don't see what's the use putting things 
like that in books. I'll bet any money that lady what wrote 
it knew all them boys and girls. They just sound like real, 
live people; and when you was telling about them I could 



234 SCENES IN FACTORIES 

just see them as plain as plain could be — couldn't you, 
Gwendolyn?" 

"Yep," yawned our vis-a-vis, undisguisedly bored. 

"But I suppose farmer folks likes them kind of stories," 
Phoebe generously suggested. "They ain't used to the same 
styles of anything that us city folks are." 



XVII. THE SPIRIT OF A GREAT CITY 1 

Robert Herrick 

[This sketch and that called City Smoke make a philosophical comment on the 
life pictured in the intervening selection, Scenes in Factories \\ 

He came to the end of his journey as night was falling. 

There it lay, the great City of men, beneath a soft canopy 
of diffused light upon the southern horizon. Long he watched 
the illumined heavens with greedy eyes, as the train, crying 
shrilly, rushed through the empty stillness of the summer night. 
That distant sky seemed radiant with earth-born fires, softly 
transfused in the upper ether to heavenly beauty. Beneath, 
the great City pulsed like a monstrous creature, breathing 
forth this phosphorescent glow upon the sky. 

His heart beat quickly in unaccustomed tumult. 

Nearer and nearer the creature came as the train penetrated 
the peopled fringe, where long lines of dotted light stretched 
forth to the silent country, until at last the radiance of the heav- 
ens melted into the glare of the City itself. The monster 
murmur of its voice rilled his expectant ears. It was the City! 

Time with its orderly hand touched that first blur of im- 
pressions and memories, erasing most, transforming, vivifying 
high points of experience, until a picture was left in large out- 
lines, gleaming here and there with significant light, in which 
the trivial and the important were blended. Thus, first of all 
he found himself somehow upon a lofty bridge, swung by spidery 
threads of steel above an immense void. He was alone, yet 
one of a thronging multitude that tramped ceaselessly past 
him. Men and women in rough garments, with pale, set 

1 Reprinted from A Life for a Life with the kind permission of The Macmillan 
Company and of the author. 



236 THE SPIRIT OF A GREAT CITY 

faces, with bent heads, — not in groups of ones and twos and 
threes, but in a solid mass, — flowing, flowing outwards from 
the City like the tide beneath the bridge, drawn outwards 
to the sea. There were no human voices, no friendly glances 
to the stranger stemming their tide. Beneath was a void, above 
where the shadowy strands faded into the dark, a void; be- 
yond, the City and behind, the City. And steadily, inces- 
santly, here on the great causeway, this tide of human atoms, — 
a black tide flowing outwards ! It was the tide of labor. Ebbing 
now, the day's work done, seeking repose, to be sucked back 
on the morrow into the City. Thus the City, one vast labor 
house, charged itself daily with human energy, and at night 
discharged itself along a thousand channels like this bridge. 
Always and always it was thus, day after day, month by month, 
year upon year. 

In the time to come of full man's experience, when he thought 
of the City he would see this human tide of labor flowing silently 
across the great bridge, hung aloft in the void, a dark tide of 
men and women with white, set faces and bent heads, as though 
leaning against the blast of destiny that threatened to sweep 
them forth into the void. Drawn by the magnet of Hunger, 
they flowed ever thus to and from the labor house, tramping 
silently, the multitude of human atoms, — the legs and the 
arms and the bodies, the heads and the hands and the minds, of 
men. A Symbol, a significant sign of that city of men! The 
youth caught there midway in the flood beheld his arena. . . . 

In those days the towered city had not risen, and yet to the 
youth looking over the great plain of buildings the stores and 
warehouses beneath him seemed immense, twinkling there in 
a maze of gaslight. From that lower point of the City where 
the great bridge touched, he must have wandered far up the 
avenues, gay and peopled. He remembered the lighted windows 
of the shops, a petty enough show then compared with what they 
became, nevertheless rich in color and substance to the hungry 



ROBERT HERRICK 237 

eyes of ignorant youth. In them were jewels and fine ornaments 
and clothes, rich foods and furniture and beautiful trinkets, — 
whatever the fancy and the appetite of man might desire. 
Sated with wonder, he turned from them to the people in 
the streets, — women handsomely dressed in rich carriages 
trotting forth for pleasure, the idling throng upon the pave- 
ment, the bustle about the doors of hotels, — always light and 
movement in the great city! And on and on in this maze of 
light and movement he wandered, past shops, and eating 
places, and theaters, enticed by the spell of the place, unmindful 
of time and self. Through the pageant of the city's summer 
night he passed, the solitary youth, with seeing eyes and open 
ears, until at last he had reached those quieter upper streets, 
about a large park where there were great dwelling-houses, 
removed by a space of proud reserve from the common ways, 
standing in dark isolation with shaded windows. Staring up 
at these great houses he wondered what manner of people 
lived behind the carefully shuttered windows. 

As the night drew on and the city's voice sank to a lower 
key, he retraced his steps through street and avenue, emptier 
now, yet never wholly without life. On and on he went, and 
always there were buildings, always street and curb and solid 
wall, as if the city had spread itself over the entire earth, and 
peopled it with crowded beings. 

Once, so the strange fancy came to him, this place of the 
city was silent earth, like the wind-swept fields beside the sea 
that he knew. Once there had been earth here, stone and soil 
and water, bearing green things. Now men had covered this 
earth with a sheet of metal and planted it with bricks and 
mortar, with steel and glass. They had carved it into a laby- 
rinth of streets, and out of it great buildings shot upwards like 
beacons to the sky. Thus man had made his home of the 
silent place of God! It glittered and smoked and hissed in the 
night, calling loudly to the heavens, throbbing as men throb 



238 THE SPIRIT OF A GREAT CITY 

with desires, made by men for men, — the image of their souls. 
The City was man! And already it was sowing its seed in the 
heart of the youth, this night. It was molding him as it molds 
the millions, after its fashion, warming his blood with desire, — 
the vast, resounding, gleaming City. . . . 

It must have been well towards the dawn when his aimless 
wandering through the streets brought him into a quiet square. 
He had been drawn thither by the bright light of an immense 
sign, set upon the roof of a building. In mammoth letters that 
stretched across the breadth of the narrow roof, compact of 
soft fire, the message burned itself upon the night. 

SUCCESS 

The great sign shining in the dark night from the roof drew 
the youth as the candle draws the moth. He moved towards 
it until he stood beneath the tall thin shaft of building, ten 
stories high, upon which the glittering sign rested. And in 
the light that radiated from the illumination above he read 
the gilt board beneath: 

THE SUCCESS CORRESPONDENCE SCHOOL 

Torch above and text beneath! Gapingly the youth looked 
up at the gleaming sign, and his lips parted in a little smile. 
In his heart he knew that this sign was meant for him. Fate 
had led his footsteps to his text. It burned far into the night, 
shooting its message into all quarters, printing itself in the 
radiance of the heavens. This was the text of the great City, 
its watchword day and night, set high above in blazing letters, 
burning steadily, a brand to sink into the souls of men. This 
was the cry that he heard in the streets, that he saw in the 
shop windows, in the carriages and silent houses, in the white, 
set faces of men and women. Success! He sat down upon 
the curb beneath the sign. 



ROBERT HERRICK 239 

Some day his friend, — the bearded Anarch, — pointing 
derisively to the bright symbol, would say to him, "That 
is the one word in the language that needs no explanation. 
For its meaning is written in the heart of every human being, 
— ' life as I will it, — my life! ' " 

Now as the youth sits there on the curb he hears the hum 
of the presses in the basement of the new building. For un- 
knowingly the blazing sign has led him to the door of Mr. 
Benjamin Gossom's nourishing establishment of popular 
education, and the swift presses are pouring forth thousands 
of his weekly leaflets, — "Gossom's Road to Success." On 
the morrow, still warm from the press and smelling of paper and 
ink, these Gossom words will be speeding to his countrymen 
by fast trains across the continent, up and down the states, 
climbing the hills, seeking tiny hamlets, dull country towns, 
busy little cities, spreading broadcast wherever they fall among 
the eighty millions their winged message. Beneath the eaves 
on the tenth floor, behind the broad gold sign, Gossom's clever 
young men and nimble stenographers have been feverishly 
preparing this winged message for the past week, working far 
into the nights to get the perfect mixture of fact and fiction, — 
fable, precept, and gossip. "And this," would say the great 
Benjamin, "is the people's education and I make it! " . . . 

The youth sat there at the feet of the fiery symbol and mused, 
as if aware in his unsophisticated mind that he had reached 
the heart of the City, that his journey of wonder and question 
ended here. 



XVIII. THUNDER AND LIGHTNING 1 

Thomas Hardy 

[Gabriel Oak, who had in the days of his prosperity courted Bathsheba Ever- 
dene, has now become her shepherd on a large farm which she has recently in- 
herited. He has stood by and watched her marry a fascinating but dissolute 
soldier, Sergeant Troy. The sergeant is not much of a farmer. In spite of threaten- 
ing weather, he has left some newly constructed wheat-stacks uncovered and given 
his men a hilarious harvest-supper and dance. While the farm-hands are lying 
in a drunken stupor, a violent thunder-storm comes up. Gabriel Oak, who has 
taken no part in the harvest-home, goes out alone to cover the stacks, if possible, 
before the rain comes. In contrast to the atmosphere of the last three selections, 
notice in this one and the next two the sense of country air, country sounds, and 
a more spacious stage for the action.] 

A light flapped over the scene, as if reflected from phos- 
phorescent wings crossing the sky, and a rumble filled the air. 
It was the first arrow from the approaching storm, and it fell 
wide. 

The second peal was noisy, with comparatively little visible 
lightning. Gabriel saw a candle shining in Bathsheba's bed- 
room, and soon a shadow moved to and fro upon the blind. 

Then there came a third flash. Maneuvers of a most extraor- 
dinary kind were going on in the vast firmamental hollows 
overhead. The lightning now was the color of silver, and 
gleamed in the heavens like a mailed army. Rumbles became 
rattles. Gabriel from his elevated position could see over 
the landscape for at least half a dozen miles in front. Every 
hedge, bush, and tree was distinct as in a line engraving. In a 
paddock in the same direction was a herd of heifers, and the 
forms of these were visible at this moment in the act of galloping 
about in the wildest and maddest confusion, flinging their heels 
and tails high into the air, their heads to earth. A poplar in 

1 Reprinted from Far from the Madding Crowd. 



THOMAS HARDY 241 

the immediate foreground was like an ink-stroke on burnished 
tin. Then the picture vanished, leaving a darkness so intense 
that Gabriel worked entirely by feeling with his hands. 

He had struck his ricking-rod, groom, or poniard, as it was 
indifferently called — a long iron lance, sharp at the extremity 
and polished by handling — into the stack to support the sheaves. 
A blue light appeared in the zenith, and in some indescribable 
manner nickered down near the top of the rod. It was the 
fourth of the larger flashes. A moment later and there was a 
smack — smart, clear, and short. Gabriel felt his position 
to be anything but a safe one, and he resolved to descend. 

Not a drop of rain had fallen as yet. He wiped his weary 
brow, and looked again at the black forms of the unprotected 
stacks. Was his life so valuable to him, after all? What 
were his prospects that he should be so chary of running risk, 
when important and urgent labor could not be carried on 
without such risk? He resolved to stick to the stack. However, 
he took a precaution. Under the staddles was a long tethering 
chain, used to prevent the escape of errant horses. This he 
carried up the ladder, and sticking his rod through the clog at 
one end, allowed the other end of the chain to trail upon the 
ground. The spike attached to it he drove in. Under the 
shadow of this extemporized lightning conductor he felt himself 
comparatively safe. 

Before Oak had laid his hands upon his tools again, out 
leaped the fifth flash, with the spring of a serpent and the 
shout of a fiend. It was green as an emerald, and the rever- 
beration was stunning. What was this the light revealed to 
him? In the open ground before him, as he looked over the 
ridge of the rick, was a dark and apparently female form. Could 
it be that of the only venturesome woman in the parish — Bath- 
sheba? The form moved on a step; then he could see no more. 

"Is that you, ma'am?" said Gabriel, to the darkness. 

"Who is there?" said the voice of Bathsheba. 



242 THUNDER AND LIGHTNING 

"Gabriel. I am on the rick, thatching." 

"Oh, Gabriel! — and are you? I have come about them. 
The weather woke me, and I thought of the corn. I am so 
distressed about it — can we save it, anyhow? I cannot 
find my husband. Is he with you?" 

"He is not here." 

"Do you know where he is?" 

"Asleep in the barn." 

"He promised that the stacks should be seen to, and now 
they are all neglected! Can I do anything to help? Liddy is 
afraid to come out. Fancy finding you here at such an hour! 
Surely I can do something?" 

"You can bring up some reed-sheaves to me, one by one, 
ma'am, if you are not afraid to come up the ladder in the dark," 
said Gabriel. "Every moment is precious now, and that 
would save a good deal of time. It is not very dark when the 
lightning has been gone a bit." 

"I'll do anything," she said resolutely. She instantly took 
a sheaf upon her shoulder, clambered up close to his heels, 
placed it behind the rod, and descended for another. At her 
third ascent the rick suddenly brightened with the brazen 
glare of shining majolica — every knot in every straw was 
visible. On the slope in front of him appeared two human 
shapes, black as jet. The rick lost its sheen — the shapes 
vanished. Gabriel turned his head. It had been the sixth 
flash which had come from the east behind him, and the two 
dark forms on the slope had been the shadows of himself and 
Bathsheba. 

Then came the peal. It hardly was credible that such a 
heavenly light could be the parent of such a diabolical sound. 

"How terrible!" she exclaimed, and clutched him by the 
sleeve. Gabriel turned, and steadied her on her aerial perch 
by holding her arm. At the same moment, while he was still 
reversed in his attitude, there was more light, and he saw as it 



THOMAS HARDY 243 

were a copy of the tall poplar tree on the hill drawn in black 
on the wall of the barn. It was the shadow of that tree thrown 
across by a secondary flash in the west. 

The next flare came. Bathsheba was on the ground now, 
shouldering another sheaf, and she bore its dazzle without 
flinching — thunder and all — and again ascended with the 
load. There was then a silence everywhere for four or five 
minutes, and the crunch of the spars as Gabriel hastily drove 
them in, could again be distinctly heard. He thought the crisis 
of the storm had passed. But there came a burst of light. 

"Hold on!" said Gabriel, taking the sheaf from her shoulder 
and grasping her arm again. 

Heaven opened then, indeed. The flash was almost too novel 
for its inexpressibly dangerous nature to be at once realized, 
and Gabriel could only comprehend the magnificence of its 
beauty. It sprang from east, west, north, south. It was a 
perfect dance of death. The forms of skeletons appeared in the 
air, shaped with blue fire for bones — dancing, leaping, striding, 
racing around and mingling altogether in unparalleled confusion. 
With these were intertwined undulating snakes of green. Be- 
hind these was a broad mass of lesser light. Simultaneously 
came from every part of the tumbling sky what may be called 
a shout; since, though no shout ever came near it, it was more 
of the nature of a shout than of anything else earthly. In the 
meantime one of the grisly forms had alighted upon the point 
of Gabriel's rod, to run invisibly down it, down the chain, and 
into the earth. Gabriel was almost blinded, and he could feel 
Bathsheba's warm arm tremble in his hand — a sensation novel 
and thrilling enough: but love, life, everything human seemed 
small and trifling in such juxtaposition with an infuriated 
universe. 

Oak had hardly time to gather up these impressions into 
a thought, and to see how strangely the red feather of her 
hat shone in this fight, when the tall tree on the hill before 



244 THUNDER AND LIGHTNING 

mentioned seemed on fire to a white heat, and a new one among 
these terrible voices mingled with the last crash of those pre- 
ceding. It was a stupefying blast, harsh and pitiless, and it 
fell upon their ears in a dead, flat blow, without that reverber- 
ation which lends the tones of a drum to more distant thunder. 
By the luster reflected from every part of the earth and from 
the wide domical scoop above it, he saw the tree was sliced down 
the whole length of its tall, straight stem, a huge ribbon of bark 
being apparently flung off. The other portion remained erect, 
and revealed the bared surface as a strip of white down the 
front. The lightning had struck the tree. A sulphurous 
smell rilled the air; then all was silent, and black as a cave in 
Hinnom. 

"We had a narrow escape!" said Gabriel hurriedly. "You 
had better go down." 

Bathsheba said nothing; but he could distinctly hear her 
rhythmical pants, and the recurrent rustle of the sheaf beside 
her in response to her frightened pulsations. She descended 
the ladder, and, on second thoughts, he followed her. The 
darkness was now impenetrable by the sharpest vision. They 
both stood still at the bottom, side by side. Bathsheba appeared 
to think only of the weather — Oak thought only of her just 
then. At last he said: 

"The storm seems to have passed now, at any rate." 

"I think so, too," said Bathsheba; "though there are multi- 
tudes of gleams — look!" 

The sky was now filled with an incessant light, frequent 
repetition melting into complete continuity, as an unbroken 
sound results from the successive strokes on a gong. 

"Nothing serious," said he. "I cannot understand no 
rain falling. But Heaven be praised, it is all the better for 
us. I am now going up again." 

"Gabriel, you are kinder than I deserve! I will stay and 
help you yet. Oh, why are not some of the others here!" 



THOMAS HARDY 245 

"They would have been here if they could," said Oak, in 
a hesitating way. 

"Oh, I know it all — all," she said, adding slowly, "they 
are all asleep in the barn, in a drunken sleep, and my husband 
among them. That's it, is it not? Don't think I am a timid 
woman, and can't endure things." 

"I am not certain," said Gabriel. "I will go and see." 

He crossed to the barn, leaving her there alone. He looked 
through the chinks of the door. All was in total darkness, 
as he had left it, and there still arose, as at the former time, 
the steady buzz of many snores. 

He felt a zephyr curling about his cheek, and turned. It 
was Bathsheba's breath — she had followed him, and was 
looking into the same chink. 

He endeavored to put off the immediate and painful subject 
of their thoughts by remarking gently: "If you'll come back 
again, miss — ma'am, and hand up a few more; it would save 
much time." 

Then Oak went back again, ascended to the top, stepped 
off the ladder for greater expedition, and went on thatching. 



XIX. GERARD AND THE BEAR 1 

Charles Reade 

[Gerard Eliason, forced to flee from medieval Holland, makes his way across 
Europe, largely on foot, toward Rome. In the Burgundian forests, he falls in 
with an older man, a guide and philosopher, who does much to cheer him on 
his way. Denys's philosophy is summed up in his oft repeated phrase — "Courage, 
mon ami, le diable est mort!" But there are other dangers to a young scholar in 
medieval forests besides the devil. The two companions have killed a bear cub 
and are carrying it along between them, while they discuss the power of Denys's 
crossbow, or arbalest, which Denys is maintaining will never be supplanted by the 
petrone and harquebuss with their "pinch of black dust and a leaden ball," so 
lately invented.] 

Gerard did not answer, for his ear was attracted by a sound 
behind them. It was a peculiar sound, too, like something 
heavy, but not hard, rushing softly over the dead leaves. He 
turned round with some little curiosity. A colossal creature 
was coming down the road at about sixty paces' distance. 

He looked at it in a sort of calm stupor at first, but the next 
moment he turned ashy pale. 

"Denys!" he cried. "Oh, God! Denys!" 

Denys whirled round. 

It was a bear as big as a cart-horse. 

It was tearing along with its huge head down, running on a 
hot scent. 

The very moment he saw it Denys said in a sickening whisper, 

"The Cub I" 

Oh! the concentrated horror of that one word, whispered 
hoarsely, with dilating eyes! For in that syllable it all flashed 
upon them both like a sudden stroke of lightning in the dark — 
the bloody trail, the murdered cub, the mother upon them, and 
it. Death. 

1 Reprinted from The Cloister and the Hearth. 



CHARLES READE 247 

All this in a moment of time. The next, she saw them. 
Huge as she was, she seemed to double herself (it was her long 
hair bristling with rage): she raised her head big as a bull's, 
her swine-shaped jaws opened wide at them, her eyes turned to 
blood and flame, and she rushed upon them, scattering the 
leaves about her like a whirlwind as she came. 

" Shoot!" screamed Denys, but Gerard stood shaking from 
head to foot, useless. 

" Shoot, man! ten thousand devils, shoot! too late! Tree! 
tree!" and he dropped the cub, pushed Gerard across the road, 
and flew to the first tree and climbed it, Gerard the same on his 
side; and as they fled, both men uttered inhuman howls like 
savage creatures grazed by death. 

With all their speed one or other would have been torn to 
fragments at the foot of his tree; but the bear stopped a moment 
at the cub. 

Without taking her bloodshot eyes off those she was hunting, 
she smelt it all round, and found, how, her Creator only knows, 
that it was dead, quite dead. She gave a yell such as neither 
of the hunted ones had ever heard, nor dreamed to be in nature, 
and flew after Denys. She reared and struck at him as he 
climbed. He was just out of reach. 

Instantly she seized the tree, and with her huge teeth tore a 
great piece out of it with a crash. Then she reared again, dug 
her claws deep into the bark, and began to mount it slowly, 
but as surely as a monkey. 

Denys's evil star had led him to a dead tree, a mere shaft, 
and of no very great height. He climbed faster than his pur- 
suer, and was soon at the top. He looked this way and that 
for some bough of another tree to spring to. There was none; 
and if he jumped down, he knew the bear would be upon him 
ere he could recover the fall, and make short work of him. 
Moreover, Denys was little used to turning his back on danger, 
and his blood was rising at being hunted. He turned to bay 



248 GERARD AND THE BEAR 

"My hour is come," thought he. "Let me meet death like 
a man." He kneeled down and grasped a small shoot to steady 
himself, drew his long knife, and clenching his teeth, prepared 
to jab the huge brute as soon as it should mount within reach. 

Of this combat the result was not doubtful. 

The monster's head and neck were scarce vulnerable for 
bone and masses of hair. The man was going to sting the bear, 
and the bear to crack the man like a nut. 

Gerard's heart was better than his nerves. He saw his 
friend's mortal danger, and passed at once from fear to blindish 
rage. He slipped down his tree in a moment, caught up the 
crossbow, which he had dropped in the road, and running 
furiously up, sent a bolt into the bear's body with a loud shout. 
The bear gave a snarl of rage and pain, and turned its head 
irresolutely. 

"Keep aloof!" cried Denys, "or you are a dead man." 

"I care not;" and in a moment he had another bolt ready 
and shot it fiercely into the bear, screaming, "Take that! take 
that!" 

Denys poured a volley of oaths down at him. "Get away, 
idiot!" 

He was right: the bear finding so formidable and noisy a 
foe behind him, slipped growling down the tree, rending deep 
furrows in it as she slipped. Gerard ran back to his tree and 
climbed it swiftly. But while his legs were dangling some 
eight feet from the ground, the bear came rearing and struck 
with her fore paw, and out flew a piece of bloody cloth from 
Gerard's hose. He climbed, and climbed; and presently he 
heard as it were in the air a voice say, "Go out on the bough!" 
He looked, and there was a long massive branch before him 
shooting upwards at a slight angle: he threw his body across 
it, and by a series of convulsive efforts worked up it to the 
end. 

Then he looked round panting. 



CHARLES READE 249 

The bear was mounting the tree on the other side. He 
heard her claws scrape, and saw her bulge on both sides of the 
massive tree. Her eye not being very quick, she reached the 
fork and passed it, mounting the main stem. Gerard drew 
breath more freely. The bear either heard him, or found by 
scent she was wrong: she paused; presently she caught sight of 
him. She eyed him steadily, then quietly descended to the fork. 

Slowly and cautiously she stretched out a paw and tried the 
bough. It was a stiff oak branch, sound as iron. Instinct 
taught the creature this: it crawled carefully out on the bough, 
growling savagely as it came. 

Gerard looked wildly down. He was forty feet from the 
ground. Death below. Death moving slow but sure on him 
in a still more horrible form. His hair bristled. The sweat 
poured from him. He sat helpless, fascinated, tongue-tied. 

As the fearful monster crawled growling towards him, incon- 
gruous thoughts coursed through his mind. Margaret: the 
Vulgate, where it speaks of the rage of a she-bear robbed of 
her whelps — Rome — Eternity. 

The bear crawled on. And now the stupor of death fell on 
the doomed man; he saw the open jaws and bloodshot eyes 
coming, but in a mist. 

As in a mist he heard a twang; he glanced down; Denys, 
white and silent as death, was shooting up at the bear. The 
bear snarled at the twang, but crawled on. Again the cross- 
bow twanged, and the bear snarled, and came nearer. Again 
the cross-bow twanged; and the next moment the bear was close 
upon Gerard, where he sat, with hair standing stiff on end 
and eyes starting from their sockets, palsied. The bear opened 
her jaws like a grave, and hot blood spouted from them upon 
Gerard as from a pump. The bough rocked. The wounded, 
monster was reeling; it clung, it stuck its sickles of claws 
deep into the wood; it toppled, its claws held firm, but its 
body rolled off, and the sudden shock to the branch shook 



250 GERARD AND THE BEAR 

Gerard forward on his stomach with his face upon one of the 
bear's straining paws. At this, by a convulsive effort, she 
raised her head up, up till he felt her hot, fetid breath. Then 
huge teeth snapped together loudly close below him in the air, 
with a last effort of baffled hate. The ponderous carcass rent 
the claws out of the bough, then pounded the earth with a 
tremendous thump. There was a shout of triumph below, 
and the very next instant a cry of dismay, for Gerard had 
swooned, and without an attempt to save himself, rolled head- 
long from the perilous height. 



XX. TAD SHELDON, SECOND CLASS SCOUT 1 
John Fleming Wilson 

" There is no har-r-m in the story, though it speaks ill for us 
big people with Misther to our names," said Chief Engineer 
Mickey O'Rourke, balancing his coffee cup between his two 
scarred hands. "Ye remimber the lasht toime I was on leave 
— and I wint down to Yaquina Bay with Captain Tyler on his 
tin gas schooner, thinkin' to mesilf it was a holiday — and all 
the fun I had was instrhuctin' the gasoline engineer in the 
mysteries of how to express one's sintimints without injurin' 
the skipper's feelin's? Well, I landed in the bay and walked 
about in the woods, which is foine for the smell of thim which 
is like fresh tar; and one afternoon I finds two legs and small 
feet stickin' out of a hole under a stump. I pulled on the two 
feet and the legs came out and at the end of thim a bhoy, 
mad with rage and dirt in his eyes. 

" ' Ye have spoiled me fun! ' says he, lookin' at me very fierce. 

" ' Do yez dig yer fun out of the ground like coal? ' I demands. 

"'I'm investigatin ' the habits of squirrels,' says he. 'I 
must find out how a squirrel turns round in his hole. Does 
he turn a summersault or stick his tail between his ears and go 
over backward? ' 

"'He turns inside out, like an ould sock,' I informs him, 
and he scorns me natural history. On the strength of mutual 
language we got acquainted. He is Tad Sheldon, the eldest son 
of Surf man No. i, of the lifesaving crew. He is fourteen years 
ould. Me bould Tad has troubles of his own, consisting of 
five other youngsters who are his gang. 'We are preparing 
to inter the ranks of the Bhoy Scouts,' he tells me, settin' 

1 Reprinted from Across the Latitudes, with the kind permission of the author. 



252 TAD SHELDON, SECOND CLASS SCOUT 

be the side of the squirrel-hole. ' We are all tenderf eet and we 
can't get enlisted with the rest of the bhoys in the United 
States because each scout must have a dollar in the bank and 
between the six of us we have only one dollar and six bits and 
that's in me mother's apron pocket and in no bank at all.' 

"'Explain,' says I. 

""Tis this way,' says me young sprig. 'All the bhoys in 
the country of America have joined the scouts, which is an . 
army of felleys that know the woods and about animals and how 
to light a fire, and know the law.' 

"'Stop!' I orders. 'No one knows the law without gold in 
one hand and a book in the other. If ye knew the law ye would 
have yer dollar.' 

"' 'Tis the scouts' law,' says he. 'It tells ye to obey yer 
superiors and be fair to animals and kind to people ye care 
little for. Ye must know how to take care of yourself any- 
where and be ready whin the counthry needs ye.' 

"'And ye need a dollar?' I asks. 'Thin, why not work for 
it and stop pokin' yer nose down squirrel-holes, where there is 
neither profit nor wages? ' 

"'Because I'm to be the pathrol-leader and I must know 
more than me men,' he retorts. 

"Now, ye remimber I had in me pocket three pay checks, 
besides the money of Mr. Lof, the second engineer, which I 
had got for him and was carryin' about to send to him by the 
first friend I saw. So I took off me cap and pulled out one of 
the checks and said: 'Me bould bhoy, go down to the town 
and get the cash for this. Bring it back to me and I'll give ye 
a dollar; and thin ye can become a scout.' 

"The lad looked at me and then at the Governmint check. 
He shook his head till the dirt rolled into his ears, for he was 
still full of the clods he had rubbed into himsilf in the hole. 
'I can't take a dollar from a man in the service,' he says. 'I 
must earn it.' 



JOHN FLEMING WILSON 253 

"The Governmint's money is clane,' I rebukes him. 'I'm 
ould and me legs ends just above me feet, so that I walk with 
difficulty. Tis worth a dollar to get the coin without trampinV 

"'I will earn it from somebody not in the service,' says me 
bould bhoy, with great firmness. 

'"I'm no surfman, thank HivinI' I remarks. 'I'm in the 
establishmint and look down on ye.' 

£k If I'd known ye were a lighthouse man I'd have taken 
all ye had at first,' he retorts. 'But ye have made me a fair 
offer and I forgive ye. My father works for his living.' 

"Ye know how the life-savers and the lighthouse people pass 
language between thim whin they meet. The lad and I ex- 
changed complimints, but he spared me because I had gray 
hairs. ' In time ye will become a keeper of a station and perform 
for the idification of the summer gur-rl,' I concludes. 'But, 
if ye were more industhrious and had more iducation, ye might 
in time get into the establishmint and tind a third-order 
light.' 

"'Why should I bury mesilf among ould min without arms 
and legs?' he inquires haughtily. 'Me youngest sister clanes 
the lamps in our house with a dirty rag and an ould toothbrush.' 

"'Well,' says I, seein' that it was poor fortune to be quar- 
relin' with a slip of a kid, 'do yes want the dollar or not?' 

"And at that we got down to facts and he explained that this 
scout business was most important. It appeared that the other 
five bhoys depinded on him to extricate thim from their diffi- 
culties and set them all up as scouts, with uniforms and knives 
and a knowledge of wild animals and how to build a fire in a 
bucket of watther. We debated the thing back and forth till 
the sun dropped behind the trees and the could air came up from 
the ground and stuck me with needles of rheumatism. 

"The lad was a good lad and he made plain to me why his 
dollar was har-rd to get. He had thought of savin' the life of 
a summer visitor, but the law read that he must save life anyhow, 



254 TAD SHELDON, SECOND CLASS SCOUT 

without lookin' for pay. 'And we can't all save lives,' he mourns; 
'for some of the kids is too young.' 

"'But ye must earn money, ye scut,' I says. 'Ye're four- 
teen and whin I was that age I was me mother's support and joy. 
I made four shilling's a wake mixin' plaster for a tile-layer.' 

"'I work,' he responds dolefully. 'But it goes to me mother 
to put with the savings in the bank against the time me father 
will be drowned and leave us without support, for ye must 
know that we life-savers get no pensions.' 

'"I niver hear-rd of a life-saver bein' drownded,' I remarks. 
'But it may be, for I see ye are of an exthraordinary family 
and anything may come to such. How many are there of 
yez?' 

"'There are six of us childher, all gur-rls but mesilf,' says he, 
with rage in his voice. 'And Carson — he was No. 4 — broke 
his hip in a wreck last week and died of the bruise and left five, 
which the crew is lookin' after. Young Carson is one of me 
gang and makes a dollar and four bits a week deliverin' clams 
to the summer folks. Ye see he can't save a dollar for the bank.' 

"And we got up and discussed the matther going down the 
hill toward the town. Before we parted Tad tould me where 
he lived. 

'"I'd call on yer father and mother,' says I, 'if I cud be sure 
they would appreciate the honor. 'Tis a comedown for an 
officer in the lighthouse establishmint to inter the door of a 
surf man.' 

"'Me father has a kind heart and is good to the ould,' he 
answers me. ' We live beyond the station, on the bluff.' 

"With that we went our ways and I ate an imminse meal in 
the hotel with the dishes all spread out before me — and a pretty 
gur-rl behind me shoulder to point out the best of thim. Thin 
I walked out and started for the house of me bould Tad. 

"I found thim all seated in the parlor excipt the missus, who 
was mixin' bread in the kitchen. I inthroduced mesilf, and 



JOHN FLEMING WILSON 255 

Sheldon, who had No. 1 on his sleeve, offered me a pipe, which 
I took. I came down to business, houldin' me cap full of checks 
and money on me lap. 'Yer bould bhoy wants to be a scout 
and lacks a dollar,' I says. 'I like his looks, though I discovered 
him in a hole under a tree. He won't take me money and scorns 
me and the establishmint.' 

"'He must earn it,' he answers, scowlin' over his pipe. 

"'But I'll spind it,' I insists, peerin' at the bhoy out of the 
tail of me eye. 'If yer town weren't dhry I'd have given it 
to the saloon man for the good of the family he hasn't got. 
So why bilge at a single dollar?' 

" ' 'Tis the scout's law,' puts in me bould Tad. 'I must make 
it honestly.' And he settled his head between his hands and 
gazed reproachfully at the clane floor. So I saved me money 
and sat till eight o'clock exchangin' complimints with Misther 
Sheldon. Thin the bell rang on the hill beyond the station and 
he pulled his cap off the dresser, kissed his wife and the five 
gur-rls and wint out to his watch and a good sleep. Whin he 
was gone I stood in the doorway and Missus Sheldon tould me 
of the little Carsons and how Missus Carson had sworn niver 
to marry again excipt in the life-saving service. 'She says 
the Governmint took away her husband and her support/ 
says the good lady,' and she'll touch no money excipt Govern- 
mint checks, bein' used to thim and Uncle Sam owin' her the 
livin' he took away.' 

"'With five childher she shud look up and marry one of the 
men in the estabhshmint,' I informs her. 'They are good 
husbands and make money.' 

"'Though a widow she has pride,' she responds sharply; 
and I left, with young Tad follerin' at me heels till I let him 
overtake me and whisper: 'If ye'd buy some clams of young 
Carson it wud help the widow.' 

"'I am starved for clams,' I whispers back like a base con- 
spirator for the hand of the lovely gur-rl in the castle. 'Show 



256 TAD SHELDON, SECOND CLASS SCOUT 

me the house of me bould Carson.' He pointed to a light 
through the thin woods. 

"They thought I was crazy whin I returned to the hotel with 
a hundred pounds of clams dripping down me back. 'I dug 
thim with me own hands this night,' I tould the man in the 
office. ' Cook thim all for me breakfast.' 

"'Ye 're a miracle of strength and endurance under watther,' 
says he; 'for 't is now high tide and the surf is heavy.' 

"'I found their tracks in the road and followed thim to their 
lair,' I retorts. 'Do I get thim for breakfast?' 

"And in the mor-rnin', whin I was that full of clams that I 
needed a shell instead of a weskit, I walked on the beach with 
the admirin' crowds of summer tourists and lovely women. 
It was fine weather and the little ones were barefooted and the 
old ones bareheaded, and the wind was gentle, and the life- 
savers were polishin' their boat in full view of the wondherin' 
throng; and I thought of this ould tub out here on the ind of 
a chain and pitied yez all. Thin I sthrolled around the point 
to the bay and found me bould Tad dhrillin' his gang in an ould 
skiff, with home-made oars in their little fists and Tad sthandin' 
in the stern-sheets, with a huge steerin' sweep between his 
arms and much loud language in his mouth. Whin I appeared 
they looked at me and Tad swung his boat up to the beach and 
invited me in. 

"'We will show you a dhrill ye will remimber,' says he, very 
polite. And with my steppin' in he thrust the skiff off and 
the bhoys rowed with tremenjous strength. We wint along a 
full three knots an hour, till he yelled another ordher and the 
bhoys dropped their oars and jumped over to one side; and 
I found mesilf undher the boat, with me mouth full of salt watther 
and ropes. Whin I saw the sun again me bould Tad says to me 
with disapprobation: 'Ye aren't experienced in capsize 
dhrill.' 

"'In the establishmint we use boats to keep us out of the 



JOHN FLEMING WILSON 257 

watther,' I responds, hunting for the papers out of me cap. 
'The newspapers are full of rebukes for thim that rock boats 
to their own peril.' With that they all felt ashamed and picked 
up me papers and grunted at each other, tryin' to blame some- 
body else. And whin I had me checks and me papers all safe 
again I smiled on thim and me bould Tad took heart. ' 'Tis 
not to tip the boat over,' says he, 'but to get it back on an even 
keel after a sea's capsized her — that is the point of the dhrill.' 
And we pulled ashore to dhry. 

"Whiles we were sittin' on the sand drainin' the watther out 
of our shoes, a small, brassy launch came down the bay, with 
manny men and women on her little decks. Me bould Tad 
looked at her with half-shut eyes and snorted. 'Some day it 
will be the life-saving crew that must bring those ninnies back 
to their homes,' he says. 'The Pacific is nothing to fool with in 
a gasoline launch. 'Tis better to be safe and buy your fish.' 
And we watched the launch chug by and out on the bar and to 
sea. I learned that she was the Gladys by name and fetched 
tourists to the fishing grounds, nine miles down the coast. 

"All the bhoys were respictful to me excipt young Carson, 
who recognized in me bould Mickey the man who had asked for 
a hundred- weight of clams. He stared at me superciliously 
and refused to have speech with me, being ashamed, if I can 
judge of his youthful thoughts, of bein' in the same company 
with a fool. 

"But I discovered that the gang was all bent on becomin' 
what they called second-class scouts, which they made plain to 
me was betther by one than a tenderfoot. But they niver 
mintioned the lackings of the dollar, bein' gintlemin. They 
wanted to know of me whether I thought that boatmanship 
and knowledge of sailing would be accipted be the powers 
instid of wisdom as to bird- tracks and intimacy with wild animals 
and bugs. And the heart of me opened, the youth of me came 
back; and I spoke to thim as one lad to another, with riferince 



258 TAD SHELDON, SECOND CLASS SCOUT 

to me years in a steamer and the need of hard hands and a hard 
head. 

"The ind of it was they rowled across the sand to me side and 
we all lay belly down over a chart, which me bould Tad had 
procured after the manner of bhoys, and they explained to me 
how they knew the coast for twelve miles each side of Yaquina 
Bay, with the tides and currents all plain in their heads. And 
I was surprised at what the young scuts knew — God save 
them! 

"At noon the visitors suddenly stopped lookin' at the scenery 
and hastened away with hunger in their eyes. The crew ran 
the surf-boat back into the station and the bhoys drew their 
skiff up out of har-rm's way; and I wint back to me hotel and 
more clams. On the steps I found young Carson, grinnin' like 
a cat. 

"'Ye don't have to eat thim shell fish,' says he, lookin' 
away. 'Gimme the sack of thim and I'll peddle thim to the 
tourists and bring ye the money.' 

"'Whisht and away with ye!' I commanded. 'Who are you 
to be dictatin' the diet of yer betthers? ' And he fled, without 
glancin' behind him. 

"There was some remar-rks passed upon me wet clothes, but 
I tould the clerk in the office that me duty called me to get 
drippin' soaked and went into the dinin' room with a stiff neck 
under me proud chin. There was but few in the place and the 
gur-rl who stood by me shoulder to pilot me through the various 
coorses informed me that the most of the guests were out on the 
Gladys fishin'. 'And the most of thim will have little appetite 
for their dinners,' she mused gently, thereby rebukin' me for 
a second helpin' of the fresh meat. 

"In the afternoon I sthrolled out on the beach again, but 
saw little. A heavy fog was rowlin' from the nor'ard and the 
breeze before it was chill and damp as a widow's bed. I walked 
for me health for an hour and then ran to kape war-rm. At 



JOHN FLEMING WILSON 259 

the ind of my spurt I was amazed to find mesilf exactly at the 
hotel steps. I wint in and laid me down be the fire and slept. 
I woke to hear a woman wailin'. 

"Whin me eyes were properly open, and both pointed in the 
same direction, I found mesilf in the midst of a crowd. The 
sittin' room was full of people, all with misery in their faces. 
The woman whose cries had woke me was standin' be the windey, 
with one hand around a handkerchief. 'My God!' she was 
sayin' — ' My God ! And me bhoy is on that boat ! ' And I 
knew that it was throuble and that many people would have 
their heads in their hands that night, with aches in their 
throats. I got up — shoes in me hand. At sight of me bright 
unifor-rm men flung themselves on me. 'You will help save 
them?' they cried at me. 

"'I will so soon as I get me shoes on,' I remar-rked, pushing 
them off me toes. I put on me boots and stood up. 'Now 
I'll save thim,' says I. 'Where are they?' 

"'They're on the Gladys,' says three at once. 'Thirty of 
our people — women and men and childher.' 

"'Why wake me? ' I demanded crosslike. 'Aren't the brave 
life-savers even now sitting be the fire waitin' for people to come 
and be saved? I 'm a chief engineer in the lighthouse establish- 
mint and we save no lives excipt whin we can't help it. Get 
the life-saving crew.' 

"And they explained to me bould Mickey that the crew was 
gone twenty miles up the coast to rescue the men on a steam 
schooner that was wrecked off the Siletz, word of it having come 
down but two hours since. They looked at me unifor-rm and 
demanded their relatives at me hands. I shoved thim away 
and wint out to think. In the prociss it occured to me that the 
Gladys might not be lost. I wint back and asked thim how 
they knew it was time to mourn. 'If that launch is ashore 
they are as close to the fire as they can get,' I tould thim. 'And 
if she has gone down 't is too late to dhry their stockings.' 



260 TAD SHELDON, SECOND CLASS SCOUT 

"'She is lost in the fog,' I was infor-rmecL She shud have 
been back at her wharf at four o'clock. 'Twas now turned six 
and the bar was rough and blanketed in mist. The captain of 
the harbor tug has stated, with wise shakes of the head, that the 
Gladys cud do no more than lay outside the night and wait for 
sunshine and a smooth crossing. I shoved them away from me 
again and wint out to think. 

"It was a mur-rky fog, the sort that slathers over the watther 
like a thick oil. Beyond the hill I cud hear the surf pounding 
like a riveter in a boiler. Overhead was a sheet of gray cloud, 
flying in curds before the wind, and in me mouth was the taste 
of the deep sea, blown in upon me with the scent of the storm. 
Two words with the skipper of the tug tould me the rest. ' It's 
coming on to blow a little from the south 'ard,' said me bould 
mariner. 'It's so thick the Gladys can't find her way back. 
Her passengers will be cold and hungry whin they retur-rn 
in the mor-rnin'.' 

'"And will ye not go after thim? ' 

"'I can't,' says he. 'Me steamer is built for the bay and one 
sea on the bar wud destroy the investmint. The life-saving 
crew is up north after a wreck.' 

"'Is there no seagoin' craft in this harbor? ' I demands. 

" ' There is not,' says he. ' Captain Tyler took his gas schooner 
down the coast yesterday.' 

"So I sat down and thought, wonderin' how I cud sneak off 
me unifor-rm and have peace. For I knew that me brass but- 
tons wud keep me tongue busy all night explainin' that I was 
not a special providence paid be the Governmint to save fools 
from purgat'ry. In me thoughts I heard a wor-rd in me ear. 
I looked up. 'Twas me bould Tad, with the gang clustherin' 
at his heels. 

" ' Ye have followed the sea for many years? ' says he. 

"'I have followed it whin it was fair weather,' I responded, 
'but the most of the time the sea has chased me ahead of it. 



JOHN FLEMING WILSON 261 

Me coattail is still wet from the times it caught me. Speak up ! 
What is it? ' 

"The bhoy pulled out of his jacket his ould chart and laid 
it before me. 'The Gladys is at anchor off these rocks,' says he, 
layin' a small ringer on a spot. 'And in this weather she will 
have to lie there as long as she can. Whin it blows she must 
up anchor and get out or go ashore here.' He moved his 
ringer a mite and it rested on what meant rocks. 

"'Well?' I remar-rks. 

" ' Me father and all the bhoys' fathers are gone up north to 
rescue the crew of a steam schooner that's wrecked. Before 
they get back it will be too late. I thought' 

"'WTiat were ye thinkin', ye scut?' says I fiercely. 

"He dropped one foot on the other and looked me between the. 
eyes. 'I was thinkin' we wud go afther her and save her,' 
says he, very bould. 

"I cast me eyes over the bunch of little fellows and laughed. 
But me bould Tad didn't wink. 'There's people out there 
drownding,' says he. 'We've dhrilled and we know all the 
ropes; but we can't pull our skiff across the bar and the big 
boat is not for us, bein' the keeper's orders. And we haven't 
the weight to pull it anyhow.' And he stared me out of me 
laugh. 

"'There is no seagoin' craft in the harbor,' I says, to stop 
his nonsinse. 

"'There is another launch,' he remar-rks casually. 

"We looked at each other and he thin says: 'Can ye run 
a gasoline engine?' 

"'I have had to,' I infor-rms him, 'but I dislike the smell.' 

"'The owner of this launch is not here,' says me young sprig. 
'And he niver tould us not to take it. If you'll run the engine 
we'll be off and rescue the folks on the Gladys!' 

"Be the saints! I laughed to kill mesilf, till the little brat up 
and remar-rks to the gang: 'These lighthouse officers wear a 



262 TAD SHELDON, SECOND CLASS SCOUT 

unifor-rm and have no work-rkin' clothes at all, not needin' 
thim in their business.' 

"So I parleyed with thim a momint to save me face. 'And 
how will ye save thim that 's dyin' in deep watthers? ' 

"'By to-morrow nobody can cross the bar,' I'm infor-rmed. 
'And the skipper of the Gladys don't know this coast. We'll 
just pick him up and pilot him in.' 

But the bar! ' I protests. 'It's too rough to cross a launch 
inward bound, even if ye can get out.' 

"'I know the soft places,' says the little sprig of a bhoy, 
very proudly. ' Come on.' 

"'And if I don't come?' I inquired. 

"He leaned over and touched the brass buttons on me jacket. 
'Ye have sworn to do your best,' says he. 'I've not had a chance 
to take me oath yet as a second-class scout, but between our- 
selves we have done so. I appeal to yez as one man to another.' 

"I got up. 'I've niver expicted to serve undher so small a 
captain,' I remark-rks, 'but that is neither here nor there. 
Where is that gasoline engine? ' 

"We stepped proudly off in the dusk, me bould Tad houldin' 
himsilf very straight beside me and the gang marchin' at our 
heels shouldher to shouldher. Prisintly we came to a wharf 
and ridin' to the float below it was a big white launch, cabined 
and decked. Tad jumped down and the gang followed. Thin 
I lowered mesilf down with dignity and intered the miserable 
engine room. 

"I have run every sort of engine and machine made by 
experts and other ignoramuses. I balk at nothing. The 
engine was new to me, but I lit a lantern and examined its in- 
wards with anxiety and superciliousness. Prisintly, by the grace 
of God, it started off. A very small bhoy held the lantern for 
me while I adjusted the valves and the carbureter, and this 
bould lad infor-rmed me with pride that the ' leader ' had assigned 
him to me as my engine-room crew. And whin the machine 



JOHN FLEMING WILSON 263 

was revolvin' with some speed that individual thrust his head 
in at the door to ask me if I was ready. 'If ye are,' says that 
limb of wickedness, 'we will start, chief.' 

"'Ye may start any time,' I says, with great respict. 'But 
whin we'll stop is another matther.' 

" ' Ye must keep her goin' whiles we cross the bar,' he infor-rms 
me, with a straight look. 

"The little gong rang and I threw in the clutch and felt the 
launch slide away. The jingle came and I opened her up. 
'Twas a powerful machine and whin I felt the jerk and pull of 
her four cylinders I sint me assistant to find the gasoline tank 
and see whether we had oil enough. Thinks I, if this machine 
eats up fuel like this we must e'en have enough and aplenty. 
The bhoy came back with smut on his nose and shtated that 
the tank was full. 

'"How do ye know?' I demanded. 

"'I've helped the owner fill her up several times,' says the 
brat. 'The leader insists that we know the insides of every 
boat on the bay. 'Tis part of our practice and whin we get to 
be scouts we will all learn to run gasoline engines.' 

"So we went along and the engines war-rmed up; and I 
trimmed the lantern and sat me down comfortable as a cat on 
a pan of dough. Thin there was a horrible rumpus on deck 
and some watther splashed down the back of me neck. ' 'Tis 
the bar,' says me proud engine-room crew, balancin' himsilf on 
the plates. 

"'They are shovin' dhrinks across it too fast for me,' I re- 
torts, as more watther simmers down. 

"'Oh, the leader knows all the soft places,' returns proudly 
this bould sprig. And with a whoop we drove through a big 
felley that almost swamped us. Thin, so far as I cud judge, 
the worst was over. 

"Prisintly we got into the trough of the sea and rowled along 
for an hour more. Then the jingle tinkled and I slowed down. 



264 TAD SHELDON, SECOND CLASS SCOUT 

Me bould Tad stuck his head in at the little door. 'The Gladys 
is right in-shore from us,' he remark-rks, careless-like. 'We 
will signal her to up anchor and come with us.' He took me 
lantern and vanished. 

"Whin I had waited long enough for all the oil to have burned 
out of three lanterns I turned the engines over to me crew 
and stepped out on deck. It was a weepin' fog, with more 
rowlin' in all the time, and the feel on me cheek was like that of 
a stor-rm. I saw me bould Tad on the little for'a'd deck, 
swingin' his little lamp. 

" 'What's the matther with that scut of a skipper? ' I inquires. 

"The bhoy was fair cryin' with rage and shame. 'He can't 
understand the signal,' says he; ' and 'tis dangerous to run closer 
to him in this sea.' 

"'If he don't understand yer signals,' says I, "Tis useless to 
talk more to him with yer ar-rms. Use yer tongue.' 

"And at that he raised a squeal that cud maybe be heard a 
hundred feet, the voice of him bein' but a bhoy's without noise 
and power. 'Let be,' says I. ' I 've talked me mind across the 
deep watthers many times.' And I filled me lungs and let out 
a blast that fetched everybody on deck on the other launch. 
Thin I tould that skipper, with rage in me throat, that he 
must up anchor and folley us or be drownded with all his 
passengers dragging on his coattails through purgat'ry. And 
he listened, and prisintly we saw the Gladys creep through 
the darkness and fog up till us. Whin she crossed our stern 
me bould Tad tould me to command her to folley us into 
port. 

"Ravin's and ragin's were nothin' to the language we traded 
across that watther for the five minutes necessary to knock 
loose the wits of that heathen mariner. In the end he saw 
the light, and the passengers that crowded his sloppy decks 
waved their arms and yelled with delight. Me bould Tad 
went into the little pilot-house and slammed the door. He 



JOHN FLEMING WILSON 265 

spoke to me sharply: "Twill blow a gale before midnight.' 
He rang the bell for full speed ahead. 

"An hour later I was signaled to stop me machines. I 
dropped the clutch and sint me assistant for news. He came 
back with big eyes. ' The leader says the other launch can't 
make it across the bar,' he reports. 

"'Well?' I says. 

"'We're goin' to take off her passengers and cross it our- 
silves,' says the brat. With that he vanishes. I followed him. 

"We were stopped right in the fog, with roily waves towerin' 
past us and the dull noise of the bar ahead of us. The Gladys 
was right astern of us and even in the darkness I cud catch a 
glimpse of white faces and hear little screams of women. I 
went to leeward and there found me bould Tad launchin' the 
little dingey that was stowed on the roof of the cabin. Whin 
it was overside four of me bould gang drops into it and pulls 
away for the other launch . ' They'll be swamped and drownded, ' 
I remar-rks. 

"'They will not,' says Tad. 'I trained thim mesilf. 'Tis 
child's play.' 

"'Childher play with queer toys in this counthry,' I con- 
tinues to mesilf ; and I had a pain in me pit to see thim careerin' 
on the big waves that looked nigh to breakin' any minute. 
But they came back with three women and a baby, with nothin' 
to say excipt: 'There's thirty-one of thim, leader!' 

"'Leave the min,' says he, real sharp. 'Tell the captain 
we'll come back for thim after we've landed the women safe.' 

"I tucked the women down in the afther cabin, snug and warm, 
and wint back on deck. The boat was away again, swingin' 
over the seas as easy as a bird. 'That's good boatmanship,' 
I remar-rks. 

"'It's young Carson in command,' says me bould bhoy 
leader. 

"'Twas fifteen minutes before the boat came back and thin 



266 TAD SHELDON, SECOND CLASS SCOUT 

there was a man in it, with two women. Whin it swung along- 
side Tad helped out the ladies and thin pushed at the man with 
his foot. 'Back ye go!' he says. 'No room on this craft for 
min.' 

"'But you're only a lot of bhoys!' says the man in a rage. 
'Who are you to give orders? I'll come aboard.' 

"'Ye will not,' says me bould Tad, and I reached into the 
engine room for a spanner whereby to back him up, for I ad- 
mired the spunk of the young sprig. But the man stared into 
the lad's face and said no thin'. And the boat pulled away with 
him still starin' over his shouldher. 

"The nixt boatload was all the rest of the womenfolks and 
childher and Tad ordered the dingey swung in and secured. 
Thin he tur-rned to me. 'We will go in.' 

"'Which way?' I demands. 

"He put his little hand to his ear. 'Hear it? ' he asks calmly. 
I listened and by the great Hivins there was a whistlin' buoy 
off in the darkness. I wint down to me machines. 

"I've run me engines many a long night whin the divil was 
bruising his knuckles agin the plates beneath me. But the 
nixt hour made me tin years ouldher. For we hadn't more'n 
got well started in before it was 'Stop her!' and 'Full speed 
ahead!' and 'Ease her!' Me assistant was excited, but kept 
on spillin' oil into the cups and feelin' the bearin's like an ould 
hand. Once, whin a sea walloped over our little craft, he grinned 
across at me. 'There ain't many soft places to-night! ' says he. 

"'Ye're a child of the Ould Nick,' says I, 'and eat fire out of 
an asbestos spoon. Ye wud be runnin' hell within an hour af ther 
ye left yer little corpse!' 

"' 'Tis the scout's law not to be afraid,' retor-rts me young 
demon. But me attintion was distracted be a tremenjous 
scamperin' over head. 'For the love of mercy, what is that?' 
I yelled. 

" ' ' Tis the leader puttin' out the drag,' says me crew. 'Whin 



JOHN FLEMING WILSON 267 

the breakers are high it's safer to ride in with a drag over the 
stern. It keeps the boat from broachin' to.' And to the dot 
of his last word I felt the sudden strong pull of something on the 
launch's tail. Thin something lifted us up and laid us down with 
a slap like a pan of dough on a mouldin' board. Me machines 
coughed and raced and thin almost stopped. Whin they were 
goin' again I saw me assistant houldin' to a stanchion. His 
face was pasty white and he gulped. 'Are ye scared at last?' 
I demanded of him. 

"'I'm seasick,' he chokes back. And he was, be Hivins! 
So we joggled and hobbled about and I wondered how many 
times we had crossed the bar from ind to ind, whin suddenly 
it smoothed down and I saw a red light through the little windey. 
Me assistant saw it too, 'That's the range light, off the jetty,' 
says he. 'We're inside.' 

"I shoved open the door to the deck and looked out. The 
fog lay about us thick and the wind was risin'; I cud barely 
make out the lights ahead. I stuck me head out and glanced 
astern. 'Way back of us, like a match behind a curtain, I 
saw a little light bobbing up and down in the fog. I took me 
crew be the ear and thrust his head out beside mine. 'What 
is that? ' I demanded. 

" ' ' Tis the other launch,' he says. 'I guess they followed us in.' 

"We ran up to the wharf and the gang made everything fast; 
and then me bould Tad comes to me with a sheepish face. ' Wud 
ye mind tellin' the ladies and childher that they can go ashore 
and get to the hotel? ' he says. 

"So it was me that wint in and tould the ladies they were 
saved and helped thim to the wharf and saw thim started for 
the hotel. Thin I came back to the launch, but there was no- 
body there. Me bould gang had disappeared. Just thin the 
other launch came up, limpin' on one leg, covered with drippin' 
men and blasphemy. They didn't wait for the lines to be put 
out, but jumped for the hotel. Whiles I was watchin' thim the 



268 TAD SHELDON, SECOND CLASS SCOUT 

skipper of the Gladys pulls himsilf out of his wrecked pilot- 
house and approaches me with heavy footfalls. 'I'm tould 
that 'twas bhoys that manned this launch,' he remar-rks. 
'If it is so I wudn't have come in and nearly lost me ship.' 

"'If it hadn't been for the bhoys ye'd now be driftin' into the 
breakers off yer favorite fishin' spot,' I retor-rts. 'I've seen 
many a man who'd found the door of hell locked against him 
swear because he hadn't the key in his pocket. Nixt time ye 
try suicide leave the women and childher ashore.' And with 
the words out of me mouth the gale broke upon us like the blow 
of a fist. 

"We took shelter behind a warehouse and the skipper of the 
Gladys said in me ear: 'I suppose the owner of the launch had 
to get what crew he cud. Where is he? I 'd like to thank him.' 

" 'If ye will come with me to the hotel ye shall see the man ye 
owe yer life to,' I infor-rmed him. 

"As we intered the hotel a tall man, with the mar-rk of aut'or- 
ity on him, observed me unifor-rm and addressed me: 'What do 
you know about this?' 

"Aut'ority is always aut'ority, and I tould him what I knew 
and had seen, not forbearin' to mintion the gang and their wild 
ambitions. And whin I had finished this man said: 'I shall 
muster thim in to-morrow. I happen to be in command of the 
scouts in this district.' 

"'But they haven't their dollars to put in the little bank,' 
I remar-rked. 'And they tell me without their dollars they 
cannot be second-class scouts, whativer that is.' 

"At this a fat man reached for a hat off the hook and put 
his hand in his pocket, drew it out and emptied it into the hat, 
and passed it. 

"And while the money jingled into it my respict for the brave 
lads rose into me mouth. 'They won't take it,' I said. 'They 
have refused money before. 'Tis their oath.' 

"The man with aut'ority looked over at me. 'The chief 



JOHN FLEMING WILSON 269 

is right,' he said. 'They have earned only a dollar apiece. 
Whose launch was that they took?' 

" ' Faith and I don't know,' I said. 'They remar-rked that the 
owner — Hivin bless him! — had niver forbidden thim to use it.' 

'"Thin we must pay the rint of it for the night,' says he. 
'But the bhoys will get only a dollar a piece. Where are they?' 

"'They disappeared whin the boat was fast, sir,' says I. 
'I think they wint home. 'Tis bedtime.' 

"'D'ye know where the pathrol-leader lives?' he demands. 

"So we walked up the hill in the darkness and wind till we 
reached the house of me bould Tad. A knock at the door 
brought out the missus, with a towel on her ar-rm. I pushed in. 
'We've come to see yer son,' says I. 

"We stepped in and saw the young sprig be the fire on a 
chair, with his feet in a bowl of watther and musthard. He was 
for runnin' whin he saw us, but didn't for the lack of clothes. 
So he scowled at us. 'This is the commander of the scouts,' 
I says, inthroducin' me tall companion. 'And her's yer five 
dollars to put with yer dollar and six bits into the little bank, 
so's yez can all of yez be second-class scouts.' 

"'We can't take the money,' says he, with a terrible growl. 
'The oath forbids us to take money for savin' life.' 

"'Don't be a hero,' I rebukes him. 'Ye're only a small 
bhoy in his undherclothes with yer feet in hot watther and 
musthard. No hero was iver in such a predicament. This 
gintleman will infor-rm ye about the money.' 

"Me bould companion looked at the slip of a lad and said 
sharply: 'Report to me to-morrow morning with yer pathrol 
at sivin o'clock to be musthered in.' 

"With that we mar-rched out into the stor-rm and back to 
the hotel, where I wint to slape like a bhoy mesilf — that was 
sixty-four me last birthday and niver thought to make a fool 
of mesilf with a gang of bhoys and a gasoline engine — and that 
on a holiday!" 



XXI. THE GLENMORE FIRE * 
Robert Herrick 

f^Hart, the principal figure of The Common Lot, is an architect who very 
early in his career finds himself in the power of an unscrupulous contractor 
and builder, Graves. The two men work together, the architect winking at the 
builder's habit of skimping the specifications — using I-beams, for instance, of 
much smaller size than those called for in the contracts, and, in general, missing 
no chance for graft. They build The Glenmore as a fireproof hotel. The steel 
construction is so skimped that the hotel is in reality a death-trap. The present 
selection, nominally a description of a big fire, is in reality an account of Hart's 
conscience. Hart has been going to the dogs in more ways than one. On the 
afternoon of the fire he is walking the streets at random in great discouragement 
of soul, wondering at his degeneration. The fire, in the end, proves to be the 
starting point of his regeneration J 

He must have walked many blocks on this avenue between 
the monotonous small houses. In the distance beyond him, 
to the south, he saw a fiery glow on the soft heavens, which 
he took to be the nightly reflection from the great blast furnaces 
of the steel works in South Chicago. Presently as he emerged 
upon a populous cross street, the light seemed suddenly much 
nearer, and, unlike the soft effulgence from the blast furnaces, 
the red sky was streaked with black. On the corners of the 
street there was an unwonted excitement, — men gaping 
upward at the fiery cloud, then running eastward, in the direction 
of the lake. From the west there sounded the harsh gong of a 
fire-engine, which was pounding rapidly down the car tracks. 
It came, rocking in a whirlwind of galloping horses and swaying 
men. The crowd on the street broke into a run, streaming along 
the sidewalks in the wake of the engine. 

The architect woke from his dead thoughts and ran with the 
crowd. Two, three, four blocks, they sped toward the lake, 
which curves eastward at this point, and as he ran the street 

1 Reprinted from The Common Lot with the kind permission of The Macmillan 
Company and of the author. 



ROBERT HERRICK 271 

became strangely familiar to him. The crowd turned south 
along a broad avenue that led to the park. Some one cried: 
" There it is! It's the hotel!" A moment more, and the archi- 
tect found himself at the corner of the park opposite the lofty 
building, out of whose upper stories broad billows of smoke, 
broken by tongues of flame, were pouring. 

There, in the corner made by the boulevard and the park, 
where formerly was the weedy ruin, rose the great building, 
which Graves had finished late in the winter, and had turned 
over to the hotel company. Its eight stories towered loftily 
above the other houses and apartment buildings in the neighbor- 
hood. The countless windows along the broad front gleamed 
portentously with the reflection from the flames above. At 
the west corner, overlooking the park, above a steep ascent of 
jutting bay windows, there floated a light blue pennon, bearing 
a name in black letters — The Glenmore. 

At first the architect scarcely realized that this building 
which was burning was Graves's hotel, his hotel. The excite- 
ment of the scene stupefied him. Already the police had 
roped off the streets beneath the fire, in which the crowd was 
thickening rapidly. From many points in the adjoining blocks 
came the shrill whistles of the throbbing engines, answering 
one another. The fire burned quietly aloft in the sky, while 
below there rose the clamor of excited men and screeching 
engines. The crowd grew denser every moment, and surged 
again and again nearer the building, packing solidly about the 
fire lines. Hart was borne along in the current. 

"They've pulled the third alarm," one man said in his ear, 
chewing excitedly on a piece of gum. "There's more'n fifty 
in there yet!" 

"They say the elevators are going still!" another one exclaimed. 

"Where's the fire-escapes?" 

"Must be on the rear or over by the alley. There ain't 
none this side, sure enough." 



272 THE GLENMORE FIRE 

"Yes, they're in back," the architect said authoritatively. 

He tried to think just where they were and where they opened 
in the building, but could not remember. A voice wailed dis- 
mally through a megaphone : — 

"Look out, boys! Back!" 

On the edge of the cornice appeared three little figures with 
a line of hose. At that height they looked like willing gnomes 
on the crust of a flaming world. 

"Gee! Look at that roof ! Look at it!" 

The cry from the megaphone had come too late. Suddenly, 
without warning, the top of the hotel rose straight into the 
air, and from the sky above there sounded a great report, like 
the detonation of a cannon at close range. The roof had blown 
up. For an instant darkness followed, as if the flame had been 
smothered, snuffed out. Then with a mighty roar the pent-up 
gases that had caused the explosion ignited and burst forth in 
a broad sheet of beautiful blue flame, covering the doomed 
building with a crown of fire. 

Hart looked for the men with the hose. One had caught 
on the sloping roof of a line of bay windows, and clung there 
desperately seven stories above the ground. 

"He's a goner!" some one near him groaned. 

Large strips of burning tar paper began to float above the 
heads of the crowd, causing a stampede. In the rush, Hart 
got nearer the fire lines, more immediately in front of the hotel, 
which irresistibly drew him closer. Now he could hear the 
roar of the flame as it swept through the upper stories and 
streamed out into the dark night. The fierce light illumined 
the silk streamer, which still waved from the pole at the corner 
of the building, untouched by the explosion. Across the east 
wall, under the cornice, was painted the sign: The Glenmore 
Family Hotel; and beneath, in letters of boastful size, 
Fireproof Building. Tongues of flame danced over the 
words. 



ROBERT HERRICK 273 

The policeman at the line pointed derisively to the legend 
with his billy. 

"Now ain't that fireproof!" 

"Burns like rotten timber!" a man answered. 

It was going frightfully fast ! The flames were now galloping 
through the upper stories, sweeping the lofty structure from end to 
end, and smoke had begun to pour from many points in the lower 
stories, showing that the fount of flame had its roots far down 
in the heart of the building. Vague reports circulated through 
the crowd: A hundred people or more were still in the hotel. 
All were out. Thirty were penned in the rear rooms of the sixth 
floor. One elevator was still running. It had been caught 
at the time of the explosion, etc. . . . For the moment the 
firemen were making their fight in the rear, and the north 
front was left in a splendid peace of silent flame and smoke — a 
spectacle for the crowd in the street. 

Within the lofty structure, the architect realized vaguely, 
there was being enacted one of those modern tragedies which 
mock the pride and vanity of man. In that furnace human 
beings were fighting for their lives, or penned in, cut off by the 
swift flames, were waiting in delirious fear for aid that was be- 
yond the power of men to give them. A terrible horror clutched 
him. It was his building which was being eaten up like grass 
before the flame. He dodged beneath the fire line and began 
to run toward the east end, driven by a wild impulse that he 
could not control. He must do something, — must help ! 
It was his building; he knew it from cornice to foundation; 
he might know how to get at those within! A policeman 
seized him roughly and thrust him back behind the line. He 
fought his way to the front again, while the dense crowd elbowed 
and cursed him. He lost his hat; his coat was half torn from 
his shoulders. But he struggled frantically forward. 

"You here, Hart! What are you after?" 

Some one stretched out a detaining hand and drew him out 



274 THE GLENMORE FIRE 

of the press. It was Cook, his draughtsman. Cook was 
chewing gum, his jaws working nervously, grinding and biting 
viciously in his excitement. The fierce glare revealed the deep 
lines of the man's face. 

"You can't get out that way. The street's packed solid!" 
Cook bellowed into his ear. "God alive, how fast it's going! 
That's your steel frame, tile partition, fireproof construction, 
is it? To hell with it!" 

Suddenly he clutched the architect's arm again and shouted: — 

"Where are the east-side fire-escapes? I can't see nothing 
up that wall, can you?" 

The architect peered through the wreath of smoke. There 
should have been an iron ladder between every two tiers of bay 
windows on this side of the building. 

"They are all in back," he answered, remembering now that 
the contractor had cut out those on the east wall as a "dis- 
figurement." 

"Let's get around to the rear," he shouted to the draughts- 
man, his anxiety whipping him once more. 

After a time they managed to reach an alley at the southwest 
angle of the hotel, where two engines were pumping from a 
hydrant. Here they could see the reach of the south wall, 
up which stretched the spidery lines of a single fire-escape. 
Cook pointed to it in mute wonder and disgust. 

"It's just a question if the beams will hold into the walls 
until they can get all the folks out," he shouted. "I heard 
that one elevator boy was still running his machine and taking 
'em down. As long as the floors hold together, he can run 
his elevator. But don't talk to me about your fireproof hotels! 
Why, the bloody thing ain't been burning twenty minutes, 
and look at it!" 

As he spoke there was a shrill whistle from the fire marshal, 
and then a wrenching, crashing, plunging noise, like the sound 
of an avalanche. The upper part of the east wall had gone, 



ROBERT HERRICK 275 

toppling outward into the alley like the side of a fragile box. 
In another moment followed a lesser crash. The upper floors 
had collapsed, slipping down into the inner gulf of the building. 
There was a time of silence and awful quiet; but almost imme- 
diately the blue flames, shot with orange, leaped upward once 
more. From the precipitous wall above, along the line of the 
fire-escape, came horrid human cries, and in the blinding smoke 
and flame appeared a dozen figures clinging here and there to 
the window frames like insects, as if the heat had driven them 
outward. 

Cook swayed against the architect like a man with nausea. 

"They're done for now, sure, all that ain't out. And I guess 
there ain't many out. It just slumped, just slumped," he 
repeated with a nervous quiver of the mouth. Suddenly 
he turned his pale face to the architect and glared into his eyes. 

"Damn you, you ! Damn you — you — " he 

stammered, shaking his fist at him. "There wasn't any steel 
in the bloody box! It was rotten cheese. That's you, you, 
youl " He turned and ran toward the burning mass, distracted, 
shouting as he ran: "Rotten cheese! Just rotten cheese ! " 

But the architect still stood there in the alley, rooted in 
horror, stupefied. High above him, in a window of the south 
wall, which was still untouched by the fire, he saw a woman 
crouching on the narrow ledge of the brick sill. She clung 
with one hand to an awning rope and put the other before her 
eyes. He shouted something to her, but he could not hear the 
sound of his own voice. She swayed back and forth, and then 
as a swirl of flame shot up in the room behind her, she fell for- 
ward into the abyss of the night. ... A boy's face appeared 
at one of the lower windows. He was trying to break the pane 
of heavy glass. Finally he smashed a hole with his fist and stood 
there, dazed, staring down into the alley; then he dropped back- 
ward into the room, and a jet of smoke poured from the vent he 
had made. 



276 THE GLENMORE FIRE 

In front of the hotel there were fresh shouts; they were using 
the nets, now. The architect covered his face with his hands, 
and moaning to himself began to run, to flee from the horrible 
spot. But a cry arrested him, a wail of multitudinous voices, 
which rose above the throb of the engines, the crackle of the 
fire, all the tumult of the catastrophe. He looked up once more 
to the fire-eaten ruin. The lofty south wall, hitherto intact, 
had begun to waver along the east edge. It tottered, hung, then 
slid backward, shaking off the figures on the fire-escape as if 
they had been frozen flies. ... He put his hands to his eyes 
and ran. 



PART IV 
HOW TO DESCRIBE CHARACTER 



PART IV 

INTRODUCTION 
HOW TO DESCRIBE CHARACTER 

In a world of men, men are our chief study. 

Ability to understand the significance for strength or weak- 
ness of acts, emotions, manners, opinions, humors, and all 
marks of character is a broad object of education. Seeing life 
— the topic of this book — never means much else than knowing 
men. One does not need to be a psychologist or a novelist to 
have skill at this business. We may go about it as amateurs 
or as professionals, but of necessity we must all gain some skill 
in it. For again and again our ability to know men affects 
our careers and our happiness. We ourselves are judged by 
this ability. To fail to understand people — that is the social 
sin. To know a good man when you see him — that is 
social service. 

This problem of knowing a man well, except the knowledge 
result from mere habit, is not simple. And the problem of 
imagining a man intimately on paper, so that he appears there 
as a concrete instance of human nature, and not just as a " type" 
with a gesture or two, is far from being simple. But the differ- 
ence between this technical ability to make a character live on 
paper and the aptitude for knowing men in life is not so great 
as at first thought appears. Indeed, we are inclined to regard it 
as very largely a technical or nominal difference. The funda- 
mental and the hard thing is to know men well in life. That is 
just as rare as leadership, which it goes so far to constitute. 
Is it not a noticeable trait of important men, leaders of society, 



2 8o HOW TO DESCRIBE CHARACTER 

that their interest in character, their ability to describe it in 
conversation, and, more distinctly perhaps, their mastery of the 
life stories of famous men are points of pride with them? 

Now the art of describing character in a narrative lies largely 
in making a technique of these human interests. Any man 
who will cultivate this technique consciously is giving his mind 
a most valuable exercise and criticism. The exercise, of course, 
demands a peculiar skill, only a small part of which we can hope 
to discuss. Let any one try, who thinks it easy, to introduce 
one of his friends into a story and have him recognized, or, 
better still, let him attempt to give a recognizable account of 
his own character. Surely you know yourself as intimately 
as you know the hero of your favorite novel. You have at your 
command a hundred times as many details of your life as of 
his. Yet when you try to give a stranger some notion of this 
intimate, vivid knowledge, how vague and piecemeal is the 
outline. The discrepancy is due, however, far more to your 
lack of skill in regard to what sort of details really count in such 
a picture than to any lack of general observation. 

The technique of character analysis or portrayal is merely 
the study of what counts. And the first rule for testing what 
counts in a story on paper is to decide whether it would count 
in the actual career of the character. In making your character 
effective, a manner, an opinion, an act will have no more weight 
on paper than it would have in life. Therefore any sound 
advice which one may give about character description in a 
story should be based on the principles by which character is 
judged in the world. 

For instance, the student of character knows that he judges 
men, and especially himself, not by abstractions but by con- 
crete evidence. You have a reputation with yourself for 
frankness. You often tell yourself how frank you are. You 
try to regard it as an admirable trait. But somehow you can 
think of very few important incidents in your career that 



HOW TO DESCRIBE CHARACTER 281 

admirably illustrate this chief trait of yours. Well, then, 
probably you are not frank. Probably you are a hypocrite — 
and I imagine that you will find it far easier to recall crucial 
instances of this other dominant trait. 

A good rule for describing character — as also for judging 
men — is to fight shy of the blinding abstractions. There are 
a lot of words, acceptably vague, like gentleman, sincere, honest, 
frank, democratic, words which descend to us glibly from the 
general talk, and by which we cover our ignorance of the case 
in hand. In describing character do not use these words with- 
out defining or illustrating them. 

Let us suppose that you have just read Middlemarch, one 
thousand pages, and feel that you know Dorothea Brooke 
pretty well. Dorothea, you say, is a proud girl, high minded, 
above the world, very beautiful, caring little for dress or orna- 
ment, ambitious to do good. She would like to sacrifice herself 
for some great purpose. All this about Dorothea is true and to 
one who has just read the book it may even appear specific. 
But is this a picture of Dorothea's character? The trouble 
with these data is that, while they are all true, they do not 
characterize. The word character means to mark, and that 
means to make specific and recognizable. 

Let us take the general truth that Dorothea is beautiful and 
does not care for ornaments — how shall we make that specific? 
"Miss Brooke," says George Eliot, "had that kind of beauty 
which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress. Her hand 
and wrist were so finely formed that she could wear sleeves not 
less bare of style than those in which the Blessed Virgin appeared 
to Italian painters; and her profile as well as her stature and 
bearing seemed to gain the more dignity from her plain gar- 
ments, which by the side of provincial fashion gave her the im- 
pressiveness of a fine quotation from the Bible — or from one 
of our elder poets — in a paragraph of to-day's newspaper." 
Then, to make this still more marked, more characteristic, 



282 HOW TO DESCRIBE CHARACTER 

we at once see Dorothea in contrast with her sister Celia. 
"She was usually spoken of as being remarkably clever, but 
with the addition that her sister Celia had more common 
sense. Nevertheless, Celia wore scarcely more trimmings; 
and it was only to close observers that her dress differed from 
her sister's, and had a shade of coquetry in its arrangements; 
for Miss Brooke's plain dressing was due to mixed conditions, 
in most of which her sister shared." 

But no character will ever stand out sharply till she acts and 
speaks. In order to bring Dorothea's traits into full relief, 
George Eliot, therefore, hastens to introduce a characterizing 
situation. As the sisters divide their mother's jewels you 
see Dorothea unforgetably. After this little scene you will 
make a very fair guess at what she would do in any situation, for 
you have seen her once with great clarity. She has made a 
characteristic impression. You know far better than before 
what is meant by the statement that Dorothea is beautiful 
and that she does not care for ornaments. 

There are a dozen varieties of method for describing character, 
but they are all related to one that is both the most direct and 
the commonest: Think in advance of a situation or incident, 
illustrating what you regard as most typical in the character, 
and first of all define and discuss this typical quality. Now make 
it specific by giving the situation which you had in mind. This 
situation may be called a characterizing situation. A series of 
such situations usually occupies the opening chapters of bio- 
graphical novels. In Vanity Fair or The Mill on the Floss or 
The Egoist, for example, nothing of great importance for the plot 
happens until we are prepared through a gradual acquaintance 
with the characters to judge of its real significance. The next 
step is to test the judgment which characterizing situations 
make, by citing some important incident in your character's 
career. This incident may be called the first marking incident. 
If he acts in this issue as one would expect him to act from the 



HOW TO DESCRIBE CHARACTER 283 

preliminary portrayal and from the characterizing situations 
which you have supplied, you have what can be well called a 
line on his character. 

You will probably agree that this is the usual method of ob- 
serving and judging character in life; it is the almost universal 
method in fiction. The constructive imagination of the writer 
of stories is formed on the habits of ordinary thinking. So this 
method can be almost perfectly illustrated from any well 
written novel, by choosing first some characterizing situation 
and by then taking, at a later moment in the plot, some marking 
incident. 

This is the method of several of the following selections. 
The Brooke sisters and the Baines sisters are seen in character- 
izing situations at the very beginning of their stories. It would 
be easy to choose two other incidents toward the end of these 
novels where the prophetic marks of character are fulfilling their 
destiny. In the passages from The Octopus, Far from the 
Madding Crowd, and Eugenie Grandet, this test or line has been 
actually carried through. The first scene is a characterizing 
scene, the second a marking incident in which the characters 
act consistently with what one has first learned of them. This 
same scheme is observable in the two selections from Stevenson 
— the biographical essay on Francois Villon in which the poet's 
character is defined and the imagined typical incident in Villon's 
career which Stevenson makes into his famous yarn, A Lodging 
for the Night. 

With this general method of study in mind, let us now ask if 
there is any way of determining what sort of situation and 
incident is most effective in bringing out salient features of 
character. The author of Eugenie Grandet knows that his 
heroine has fine daring and also great capacity for sacrifice. 
If we could think of her as a writer's puppet or stock figure, 
before entering the plot of her novel, she would appear to us 
as personifying those two qualities. After reading the book 



284 HOW TO DESCRIBE CHARACTER 

we know that the incidents which count for most are those which 
heighten these qualities. Could we meet Buck Annixter out- 
side the plot of The Octopus, at a summer hotel in the Adiron- 
dacks, for example, we should still expect to find a man who 
was not altogether satisfied with the board or the fishing, and 
who probably discovered that the hotel prices were evidence of 
a stupendous system of graft. Outside their novels, however, 
characters may be supposed to be very much more like the rest 
of us — that is, very variable. The difference between a story 
and the daily run of life lies almost entirely in this — a character 
in life may do, from one end of the week to the other, a hundred 
different things, hold a lot of miscellaneous opinions, and fall 
into a variety of moods, without in any way growing incon- 
sistent or unlifelike; but the same character in a book is limited 
to a small variety of attitudes and actions, all of which must 
either forward the movement of the plot or illustrate aspects of 
character that affect the plot. The examination of a novel 
by the method previously described will therefore give us the 
key for answering the question about what sort of situation 
best brings out salient characteristics. 

In The Octopus, a rather amateurish novel, but a document 
that offers singular opportunity for the study of this literary 
method in the making, we first see Buck Annixter in one of his 
typical sulky bilious fits eating dried prunes on his veranda 
and cursing at the world. Annixter is always at war with the 
world. He sees in it nothing friendly. He is nearly always 
bilious, suspicious, jealous. It is this temper that determines 
his career. To understand the succeeding incidents of the novel 
you have to see this biliousness, which is their physical or 
nervous cause. With the veranda scene in the background, 
the first crucial incident when Annixter orders his foreman off 
the ranch is a perfectly natural scene. It is exactly character- 
istic and also a most important turn in the plot. But with 
nothing concrete, like the veranda scene, in the background 



HOW TO DESCRIBE CHARACTER 285 

of Annixter's temper — nothing but the statement, let us say, 
that he was of bilious disposition — you would find this marking 
incident forced and unnatural, and you would see in it only 
the author's arbitrary manipulation of his plot. 

We may conclude, then, that an incident to bring out features 
of character effectively must be a crucial incident in the plot, 
in the career of the character. It must both illustrate a domi- 
nant trait and definitely forward or turn the action. 

It may be noticed that it is precisely by this kind of incident 
that one prefers to judge a man in his actual career. If you 
have a reputation for being careless, inaccurate, absent-minded 
in small, everyday matters, doubtless your friends feel that the 
same traits will appear in some important connection. You 
think they are wrong. "As soon as I have some work to do 
that I really care about," you say, "I shall pay sharp attention 
to it." The question in one's mind is whether habit will not 
be too strong for you, and you are going to be judged by a 
crucial incident or two that tests how far your reputation (your 
everyday character) really defines your will. So common 
is this question to all our lives that many a novel has it 
for a fundamental thesis — everyday character is destiny. 
George Eliot's Maggie Tulliver and Joseph Conrad's Lord Jim 
are excellent examples of it. 

Every man's character may be thus said to suggest a story, 
the plot of which we discover more clearly by defining his 
dominant traits, by adding typical situations and marking inci- 
dents in which such traits play the decisive part. 

These are a few of the principles by which action is made 
characteristic and character is brought out in action. If these 
larger matters are understood, the details and "tricks" of 
characterization will usually take care of themselves. Espe- 
cially will they be less apt to assume an isolated importance or 
to be introduced without sufficient reference to the role the 
character plays in the plot. For too frequently the amateur 



286 HOW TO DESCRIBE CHARACTER 

gives his people an inventory of features merely for their own 
sake — a bright blue eye, or a mole on the chin, a little nervous 
habit of tightening the necktie, or a slight stammer in speech — 
without asking if these are in any way characteristic features. 
Undoubtedly we want to have some notion of what the people 
in a story look like, and often of what they wear. Even a 
momentary vividness has its value, but the details that finally 
count for us are those emphasing the role the character plays. 
Other details can be filled in by our independent fancy. 

In this respect Balzac's Old Grandet is a masterpiece. Every- 
thing about him — his stammer, his scowl, his watch chain, the 
jack-knife with which he whittles his piece of bread at break- 
fast — seems to count in the plot. The stammer, in fact, plays 
an important role, and all make a perfect stage-setting for his 
character. In the same way the characterizing details of young 
Charles Grandet's dress, the articles in his portmanteau, his 
fashionable toilet, make an ominous impression. Your fears 
for Eugenie are roused in advance. In Stevenson's picture of 
Francois Villon there are many strokes and not one wasted: 
"The poet was a rag of a man, dark, little, and lean, with hollow 
cheeks and thin black locks. He carried his four-and- twenty 
years with feverish animation. Greed had made folds about 
his eyes, evil smiles had puckered his mouth. The wolf and pig 
struggled together in his face. It was an eloquent, sharp, 
ugly, earthly countenance. His hands were small and pre- 
hensile, with fingers knotted like a cord; and they were con- 
tinually nickering in front of him in violent and expressive 
pantomime." All these details explain the character who talks 
so astonishingly in the dialogue with the Bailly du Patatrac. 

It is very frequent and very poor advice that much de- 
scription of character is space wasted. But it is true that the 
short story with a compact plot has little time for it. The 
details must be the briefest and the most suggestive. Mau- 
passant has but small space to devote to Monsieur Loisel. 



HOW TO DESCRIBE CHARACTER 287 

We know nothing about his looks. They do not count in the 
plot. We really know next to nothing about the man, and yet 
he is real — simply because he had been saving up his money 
to buy a shot-gun, and because he used to sit down to the supper 
his wife prepared and exclaim, "Ah, the good old stew!" For 
some reason we recognize at once a homely, plodding, unimagi- 
native man. He is a mere type, like so many mere individuals. 
He has been humanized for the moment, but not defined. It 
was not necessary. 

For purposes of brief characterization a single obtrusive 
habit is often sufficient. The dramatists and actors have 
taught us this, and we can see the principle, if we look, in 
nearly everybody we know. The absurd skip in Lord Dun- 
dreary's walk, my friend's habit of rolling his tongue across his 
mouth whenever he thinks he is talking unusually well, some- 
how denote temperament. The cartoonists have made these 
labels their life study. To describe a character by contrast 
is also an economical and a very true method. It is only by 
contrast with our fellows that most of us take on any char- 
acter (any marks) at all. We see Celia and Dorothea, Constance 
and Sophia, each more sharply because of shades and distinctions 
which come out only when they are placed over against each 
other. Any true dramatic confrontation emphazises the domi- 
nant traits. Eugenie takes on a heightened beauty in the pres- 
ence of her father; he, in turn, grows more dour. It would be 
hard to conceive anybody else in the city of Paris who could serve 
so well to emphasize Villon's humor as the eminently respectable 
Bailly du Patatrac, beneficent and philosophical, but to whose 
marvelously civilized urbanity Villon is utterly impervious. 

Nearly the whole art of fiction lies in genius for reproducing, 
defining, and creating characters. To reproduce is to define, 
to define is to create. A sheerly fanciful character does not 
exist. But the imagination for making up, out of experience, 
a new man, different from any other in our acquaintance, is 



288 HOW TO DESCRIBE CHARACTER 

the resource of the story teller. For since no two men are alike 
in life, so in a story, if a character is to be real to us, he must be 
slightly different from all others both in life and in fiction. 
The processes by which a character grows thus distinct, different, 
real, in the mind of a writer are, of course, much the same as 
those by which he would become so in the acquaintance of life. 
They are gradual processes. Every scene in which he is to 
play a part develops him. If the writer knows the whole plot, 
he has in mind a series of tests for him that do much to define 
him in advance. But a thoroughly preconceived character 
in fiction is probably as rare as a Minerva springing fully armed 
from the forehead of Jupiter. 

The art of describing character is perhaps the only universal 
art. At all events everyone boasts some skill in it. And in 
a college course, if honestly followed, it can be one of the best 
exercises by which we prepare ourselves sympathetically for 
the world in which we live. 



XXII. THE BROOKE SISTERS 1 
George Eliot 

[Throughout the long novel of Middlemarch, Dorothea and Celia Brooke take 
much the same attitude toward life and toward each other which they display in 
this first chapter. Celia is contented, interested in things close to her; Dorothea 
is romantic, longing for something else than what is at hand. The consequence 
is that Dorothea, who is the heroine of the main plot of the novel (there are three 
distinct plots woven together in Middlemarch) , has a pretty hard time of it, com- 
pared with her sister. On moral and romantic grounds she first marries an elderly 
scholar, in order to be of use to him in his literary work. On moral and romantic 
grounds after his death, she refuses for a long time to marry his nephew for fear of 
embarrassing an ambitious career. Every act and every decision of her life is com- 
plicated by her "principles." Celia, on the other hand, accepts happily what for- 
tune first throws in her way, and fits into life so neatly that she always appears 
as the saner and more useful woman of the two. This first characterizing scene 
forecasts their two fates as clearly as if it were writing on the wall. These two sis- 
ters should be compared with Sophia and Constance Baines in the next selection.]] 

Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be 
thrown into relief by poor dress. Her hand and wrist were 
so finely formed that she could wear sleeves not less bare of 
style than those in which the Blessed Virgin appeared to Italian 
painters; and her profile as well as her stature and bearing 
seemed to gain the more dignity from her plain garments, 
which by the side of provincial fashion gave her the impressive- 
ness of a fine quotation from the Bible — or from one of our 
elder poets — in a paragraph of to-day's newspaper. She 
was usually spoken of as being remarkably clever, but with the 
addition that her sister Celia had more common sense. Never- 
theless, Celia wore scarcely more trimmings; and it was only 
to close observers that her dress differed from her sister's, and 
had a shade of coquetry in its arrangements; for Miss Brooke's 
plain dressing was due to mixed conditions, in most of which 

1 Reprinted from Middlemarch. 



2QO THE BROOKE SISTERS 

her sister shared. The pride of being ladies had something to 
do with it: the Brooke connections, though not exactly aristo- 
cratic, were unquestionably "good": if you inquired backward 
for a generation or two, you would not find any yard-measuring 
or parcel-tying forefathers — anything lower than an admiral 
or a clergyman; and there was even an ancestor discernible 
as a Puritan gentleman who served under Cromwell, but after- 
wards conformed, and managed to come out of all political 
troubles as the proprietor of a respectable family estate. Young 
women of such birth, living in a quiet country house, and at- 
tending a village church hardly larger than a parlor, naturally 
regarded frippery as the ambition of a huckster's daughter. 
Then there was well-bred economy, which in those days made 
show in dress the first item to be deducted from, when any 
margin was required for expenses more distinctive of rank. 
Such reasons would have been enough to account for plain 
dress, quite apart from religious feeling; but in Miss Brooke's 
case religion alone would have determined it; and Celia mildly 
acquiesced in all her sister's sentiments, only infusing them with 
that common sense which is able to accept momentous doctrines 
without any eccentric agitation. Dorothea knew many pas- 
sages of Pascal's Pensees and of Jeremy Taylor by heart; and 
to her the destinies of mankind, seen by the light of Christi- 
anity, made the solicitudes of feminine fashion appear an 
occupation for Bedlam. She could not reconcile the anxieties 
of a spiritual life involving eternal consequences with a keen 
interest in gimp and artificial protrusions of drapery. Her 
mind was theoretic, and yearned by its nature after some lofty 
conception of the world which might frankly include the parish 
of Tipton and her own rule of conduct there; she was enamored 
of intensity and greatness, and rash in embracing whatever 
seemed to her to have those aspects; likely to seek martyrdom, 
to make retractions, and then to incur martyrdom, after all, 
in a quarter where she had not sought it. Certainly such 



GEORGE ELIOT 291 

elements in the character of a marriageable girl tended to inter- 
fere with her lot, and hinder it from being decided, according 
to custom, by good looks, vanity, and merely canine affection. 
With all this, she, the elder of the sisters, was not yet twenty, 
and they had both been educated, since they were about twelve 
years old and had lost their parents, on plans at once narrow 
and promiscuous, first in an English family and afterward 
in a Swiss family at Lausanne, their bachelor uncle and guard- 
ian trying in this way to remedy the disadvantages of their 
orphaned condition. . . . 

The rural opinion about the new young ladies, even among 
the cottagers, was generally in favor of Celia, as being so amiable 
and innocent-looking, while Miss Brooke's large eyes seemed, 
like her religion, too unusual and striking. Poor Dorothea! 
Compared with her, the innocent-looking Celia was knowing 
and worldly-wise; so much subtler is a human mind than the 
outside tissues which make a sort of blazonry or clock-face for it. 

Yet those who approached Dorothea, though prejudiced 
against her by this alarming hearsay, found that she had a 
charm unaccountably reconcilable with it. Most men thought 
her bewitching when she was on horseback. She loved the 
fresh air and the various aspects of the country, and when her 
eyes and cheeks glowed with mingled pleasures she looked very 
little like a devotee. Riding was an indulgence which she 
allowed herself in spite of conscientious qualms; she felt that 
she enjoyed it in a pagan, sensuous way, and always looked 
forward to renouncing it. 

She was open, ardent, and not in the least self-admiring; 
indeed, it was pretty to see how her imagination adorned her 
sister Celia with attractions altogether superior to her own, 
and if any gentleman appeared to come to the Grange from 
some other motive than that of seeing Mr. Brooke, she concluded 
that he must be in love with Celia. Sir James Chettam, for 
example, whom she constantly considered from Celia's point 



2Q2 THE BROOKE SISTERS 

of view, inwardly debating whether it would be good for Celia 
to accept him. That he should be regarded as a suitor to herself 
would have seemed to her a ridiculous irrelevance. Dorothea, 
with all her eagerness to know the truths of life, retained very 
child-like ideas about marriage. She felt sure that she would 
have accepted the judicious Hooker, if she had been born in time 
to save him from that wretched mistake he made in matrimony; 
or John Milton when his blindness had come on; or any of the 
other great men whose odd habits it would have been glorious 
piety to endure; but an amiable, handsome baronet, who said 
" exactly" to her remarks even when she expressed uncertainty 
— how could he affect her as a lover? The really delightful 
marriage must be that where your husband was a sort of father, 
and could teach you even Hebrew if you wished it. 

These peculiarities of Dorothea's character caused Mr. 
Brooke to be all the more blamed in neighboring families for 
not securing some middle-aged lady as guide and companion 
to his nieces. But he himself dreaded so much the sort of 
superior woman likely to be available for such a position, that 
he allowed himself to be dissuaded by Dorothea's objections, 
and was in this case brave enough to defy the world — that 
is to say, Mrs. Cadwallader, the rector's wife, and the small 
group of gentry with whom he visited in the northeast corner 
of Loamshire. So Miss Brooke presided in her uncle's house- 
hold, and did not at all dislike her new authority, with the 
homage that belonged to it. 

Sir James Chettam was going to dine at the Grange to-day 
with another gentleman whom the girls had never seen, and 
about whom Dorothea felt some venerating expectation. This 
was the Reverend Edward Casaubon, noted in the county as 
a man of profound learning, understood for many years to be 
engaged on a great work concerning religious history; also as 
a man of wealth enough to give luster to his piety, and having 
views of his own which were to be more clearly ascertained 



GEORGE ELIOT 293 

on the publication of his book. His very name carried an 
impressiveness hardly to be measured without a precise chro- 
nology of scholarship. 

Early in the day Dorothea had returned from the infant- 
school which she had set going in the village, and was taking 
her usual place in the pretty sitting-room which divided the 
bedrooms of the sisters, bent on finishing a plan for some build- 
ings (a kind of work which she delighted in), when Celia, who 
had been watching her with a hesitating desire to propose 
something, said, 

"Dorothea dear, if you don't mind — if you are not very 
busy — suppose we look at mamma's jewels to-day, and di- 
vide them? It is exactly six months to-day since uncle gave 
them to you, and you have not looked at them yet." 

Celia's face had the shadow of a pouting expression in it, 
the full presence of the pout being kept back by an habitual 
awe of Dorothea and principle; two associated facts which 
might show a mysterious electricity if you touched them incau- 
tiously. To her relief, Dorothea's eyes were full of laughter 
as she looked up. 

"What a wonderful little almanac you are, Celia! Is it 
six calendar or six lunar months?" 

"It is the last day of September now, and it was the first 
of April when uncle gave them to you. You know, he said 
that he had forgotten them till then. I believe you have never 
thought of them since you locked them up in the cabinet here." 

"Well, dear, we should never wear them, you know." Doro- 
thea spoke in a full cordial tone, half caressing, half explanatory . 
She had her pencil in her hand, and was making tiny side-plans 
on a margin. 

Celia colored, and looked very grave. "I think, dear, we 
are wanting in respect to mamma's memory, to put them by 
and take no notice of them. And," she added, after hesitating 
a little, with a rising sob of mortification, "necklaces are quite 



294 THE BROOKE SISTERS 

usual now; and Madame Poincon, who was stricter in some 
things even than you are, used to wear ornaments. And 
Christians generally — surely there are women in heaven now 
who wore jewels." Celia was conscious of some mental strength 
when she really applied herself to argument. 

"You would like to wear them?" exclaimed Dorothea, an 
air of astonished discovery animating her whole person with 
a dramatic action which she had caught from that very Madame 
Poincon who wore the ornaments. "Of course, then, let us 
have them out. Why did you not tell me before? But the 
keys, the keys!" She pressed her hands against the sides of her 
head and seemed to despair of her memory. 

"They are here," said Celia, with whom this explanation had 
been long meditated and prearranged. 

"Pray open the large drawer of the cabinet and get out 
the jewel-box." 

The casket was soon open before them, and the various 
jewels spread out, making a bright parterre on the table. It 
was no great collection, but a few of the ornaments were really 
of remarkable beauty, the finest that was obvious at first being 
a necklace of purple amethysts set in exquisite gold-work, 
and a pearl cross with five brilliants in it. Dorothea immediately 
took up the necklace and fastened it around her sister's neck, 
where it fitted almost as closely as a bracelet; but the circle 
suited the Henrietta-Maria style of Celia's head and neck, 
and she could see that it did, in the pier-glass opposite. 

"There, Celia! you can wear that with your Indian muslin. 
But this cross you must wear with your dark dresses." 

Celia was trying not to smile with pleasure. "Oh, Dodo, 
you must keep the cross yourself." 

"No, no, dear — no," said Dorothea, putting up her hand 
with careless deprecation. 

"Yes, indeed you must; it would suit you — in your black 
dress now," said Celia, insistingly. "You might wear that." 



GEORGE ELIOT 295 

"Not for the world, not for the world. A cross is the last 
thing I would wear as a trinket." Dorothea shuddered slightly. 

"Then you will think it wicked in me to wear it," said Celia, 
uneasily. 

"No, dear, no," said Dorothea, stroking her sister's cheek. 
"Souls have complexions too: what will suit one will not suit 
another." 

"But you might like to keep it for mamma's sake." 

"No, I have other things of mamma's — her sandal-wood box 
which I am so fond of — plenty of things. In fact, they are 
all yours, dear. We need discuss them no longer. There — 
take away your property." 

Celia felt a little hurt. There was a strong assumption of 
superiority in this Puritanic toleration, hardly less trying to 
the blonde flesh of an unenthusiastic sister than a Puritanic 
persecution. 

"But how can I wear ornaments, if you, who are the elder 
sister, will never wear them?" 

"Nay, Celia, that is too much to ask, that I should wear 
trinkets to keep you in countenance. If I were to put on 
such a necklace as that, I should feel as if I had been pirouetting. 
The world would go round with me, and I should not know how 
to walk." 

Celia had unclasped the necklace and drawn it off. "It 
would be a little tight for your neck; something to lie down 
and hang would suit you better," she said, with some satis- 
faction. The complete unfitness of the necklace from all 
points of view for Dorothea made Celia happier in taking it. 
She was opening some ring-boxes, which disclosed a fine em- 
erald with diamonds, and just then the sun passing beyond a 
cloud sent a bright gleam over the table. 

"How very beautiful these gems are!" said Dorothea, under 
a new current of feeling, as sudden as the gleam. "It is strange 
how deeply colors seem to penetrate one, like scent. I suppose 



296 THE BROOKE SISTERS 

that is the reason why gems are used as spiritual emblems in the 
Revelation of St. John. They look like fragments of heaven. 
I think that emerald is more beautiful than any of them." 

"And there is a bracelet to match it," said Celia. "We did 
not notice this at first." 

"They are lovely," said Dorothea, slipping the ring and 
bracelet on her finely-turned finger and wrist, and holding 
them toward the window on a level with her eyes. All the 
while her thought was trying to justify her delight in the colors 
by merging them in her mystic religious joy. 

"You would like those, Dorothea," said Celia, rather fal- 
teringly, beginning to think with wonder that her sister showed 
some weakness, and also that emeralds would suit her own 
complexion even better than purple amethysts. "You must 
keep that ring and bracelet — if nothing else. But see, these 
agates are very pretty — and quiet." 

"Yes! I will keep these — this ring and bracelet," said 
Dorothea. Then, letting her hand fall on the table, she said 
in another tone — "Yet what miserable men find such things, 
and work at them, and sell them!" She paused again, and 
Celia thought that her sister was going to renounce the orna- 
ments, as in consistency she ought to do. 

"Yes, dear, I will keep these," said Dorothea, decidedly. 
"But take all the rest away, and the casket." 

She took up her pencil without removing the jewels, and 
still looking at them. She thought of often having them by 
her, to feed her eye at these little fountains of pure color. 

"Shall you wear them in company?" said Celia, who was 
watching her with real curiosity as to what she would do. 

Dorothea glanced quickly at her sister. Across all her 
imaginative adornment of those whom she loved, there darted 
now and then a keen discernment, which was not without a 
scorching quality. If Miss Brooke ever attained perfect meek- 
ness, it would not be for lack of inward fire. 



GEORGE ELIOT 297 

"Perhaps," she said, rather haughtily. "I can not tell to 
what level I may sink." 

Celia blushed, and was unhappy; she saw that she had 
offended her sister, and dared not say even anything pretty 
about the gift of the ornaments which she put back into the 
box and carried away. Dorothea too was unhappy, as she 
went on with her plan-drawing, questioning the purity of her 
own feeling and speech in the scene which had ended with 
that little explosion. 

Celia's consciousness told her that she had not been at all 
in the wrong: it was quite natural and justifiable that she 
should have asked that question, and she repeated to herself 
that Dorothea was inconsistent: either she should have taken 
her full share of the jewels, or, after what she had said, she 
should have renounced them altogether. 

"I am sure — at least, I trust," thought Celia, "that the 
wearing of a necklace will not interfere with my prayers. And 
I do not see that I should be bound by Dorothea's opinions, 
now we are going into society, though of course she herself 
ought to be bound by them. But Dorothea is not always 
consistent." 

Thus Celia, mutely bending over her tapestry, until she 
heard her sister calling her. 

"Here, Kitty, come and look at my plan; I shall think I 
am a great architect, if I have not got incompatible stairs and 
fire-places." 

As Celia bent over the paper, Dorothea put her cheek against 
her sister's arm caressingly. Celia understood the action. 
Dorothea saw that she had been in the wrong, and Celia par- 
doned her. Since they could remember, there had been a mix- 
ture of criticism and awe in the attitude of Celia's mind toward 
her elder sister. The younger had always worn a yoke; but is 
there any yoked creature without its private opinions? 



XXIII. THE BAINES SISTERS 1 
Arnold Bennett 

^The future of Sophia Baines is relative to her whimsical daring; that of 
Constance, to her caution. Sophia marries an adventurer who deserts her in 
Paris, and she makes a living there during the Franco-Prussian war and for years 
afterward by her resourcefulness and energy. In the end she returns to Con- 
stance, who has been married and left a widow by the homely and fearsome 
clerk, Mr. Povey, whom we see in this first chapter. The novel is an extraor- 
dinary study of the development of the girls from this beginning down to the day 
of their death.' It is one of the most continuous tracings of character in all fiction J 

"What time did mother say she should be back?" Sophia 
asked. 

"Not until supper." 

"Oh I Hallelujah!" Sophia burst out, clasping her hands 
in joy. And they both slid down from the counter of the shop 
where Sophia and Constance Baines live with their mother, 
their invalid father, and Mr. Povey, a clerk, just as if they had 
been little boys, and not, as their mother called them, "great 
girls." 

"Let's go and play the Osborne quadrilles," Sophia sug- 
gested (the Osborne quadrilles being a series of dances arranged 
to be performed on drawing-room pianos by four jewelled 
hands). 

"I couldn't think of it," said Constance, with a precocious 
gesture of seriousness. In that gesture, and in her tone, was 
something which conveyed to Sophia: "Sophia, how can you 
be so utterly blind to the gravity of our fleeting existence as to 
ask me to go and strum the piano with you?" Yet a moment 
before she had been a little boy. 

"Why not?" Sophia demanded. 

1 Reprinted from The Old Wives' Tale, with the kind permission of George H 
Doran Company and of the author. 



ARNOLD BENNETT 299 

"I shall never have another chance like to-day for getting 
on with this," said Constance, picking up a bag from the counter. 

She sat down and took from the bag a piece of loosely woven 
canvas, on which she was embroidering a bunch of roses in 
colored wools. . . . The canvas was destined to adorn a gilt 
firescreen in the drawing-room, and also to form a birthday gift 
to Mrs. Baines from her elder daughter. 

"Con," murmured Sophia, "you're too sickening sometimes." 

"Well," said Constance, blandly, "it's no use pretending that 
this hasn 't got to be finished before we go back to school, because 
it has." 

Sophia wandered about, a prey ripe for the Evil One. "Oh," 
she exclaimed joyously — even ecstatically — looking behind 
the cheval glass, "here's mother's new skirt! Miss Dunn's 
been putting the gimp on it! Oh, mother, what a proud thing 
you will be!" 

Constance heard swishings behind the glass. "What are 
you doing, Sophia?" 

"Nothing." 

"You surely aren't putting that skirt on?" 

"Why not?" 

"You'll catch it finely, I can tell you!" 

Without further defence, Sophia sprang out from behind 
the immense glass. She had already shed a notable part of 
her own costume, and the flush of mischief was in her face. 
She ran across to the other side of the room and examined 
carefully a large colored print that was affixed to the wall. 

This print represented fifteen sisters, all of the same height 
and slimness of figure, all of the same age — about twenty- 
five or so, and all with exactly the same haughty and bored 
beauty. That they were in truth sisters was clear from the 
facial resemblance between them; their demeanour indicated 
that they were princesses, offspring of some impossibly prolific 
king and queen. Those hands had never toiled, nor had those 



300 THE BAINES SISTERS 

features ever relaxed from the smile of courts. The princesses 
moved in a landscape of marble steps and verandas, with a 
bandstand and strange trees in the distance. One was in a 
riding-habit, another in evening attire, another dressed for tea, 
another for the theatre, another seemed to be ready to go to 
bed. One held a little girl by the hand; it could not have been 
her own little girl, for these princesses were far beyond human 
passions. Where had she obtained the little girl? Why was 
one sister going to the theatre, another to tea, another to the 
stable, and another to bed? Why was one in a heavy mantle, 
and another sweltering from the sun's rays under a parasol? 
The picture was drenched in mystery, and the strangest thing 
about it was that all these highnesses were apparently content 
with the most ridiculous and out-moded fashions. Absurd hats, 
with veils flying behind; absurd bonnets, fitting close to the 
head, and spotted; absurd coiffures that nearly lay on the nape; 
absurd, clumsy sleeves; absurd waists, almost above the elbow's 
level; absurd scolloped jackets! And the skirts! What a sight 
were those skirts! They were nothing but vast decorated pyra- 
mids; on the summit of each was stuck the upper half of a 
princess. It was astounding that princesses should consent to 
be so preposterous and so uncomfortable. But Sophia perceived 
nothing uncanny in the picture, which bore the legend: " Newest 
summer fashions from Paris. Gratis supplement to Myra's 
Journal." Sophia had never imagined anything more stylish, 
lovely, and dashing than the raiment of the fifteen princesses. . . . 
Sophia studied them as the fifteen apostles of the ne plus ultra: 
then, having taken some flowers and plumes out of a box, amid 
warnings from Constance, she retreated behind the glass, and 
presently emerged as a great lady in the style of the princesses. 
Her mother's tremendous new gown ballooned about her in all 
its fantastic richness and expensiveness. And with the gown 
she had put on her mother's importance — that mien of assured 
authority, of capacity tested in many a crisis, which character- 



ARNOLD BENNETT 301 

ized Mrs. Baines, and which Mrs. Baines seemed to impart to 
her dresses even before she had regularly worn them. For it 
was a fact that Mrs. Baines's empty garments inspired respect, 
as though some essence had escaped from her and remained in 
them. 

" Sophia!" 

Constance stayed her needle, and, without lifting her head, 
gazed, with eyes raised from her wool-work, motionless at the 
posturing figure of her sister. It was sacrilege that she was 
witnessing, a prodigious irreverence. She was conscious of an 
expectation that punishment would instantly fall on this dar- 
ing, impious child. But she, who never felt these mad, amaz- 
ing impulses, could nevertheless only smile fearfully. 

"Sophia!" she breathed, with an intensity of alarm that 
merged into condoning admiration. "Whatever will you do 
next?" 

Sophia's lovely flushed face crowned the extraordinary struc- 
ture like a blossom, scarcely controlling its laughter. She was 
as tall as her mother, and as imperious, as crested, and proud; 
and in spite of the pigtail, the girlish semi-circular comb, and 
the loose foal-like limbs, she could support as well as her mother 
the majesty of the gimp-embroidered dress. Her eyes sparkled 
with all the challenges of the untried virgin as she minced about 
the showroom. Abounding life inspired her movements. The 
confident and fierce joy of youth shone on her brow. "What 
thing on earth equals me?" she seemed to demand with enchant- 
ing and yet ruthless arrogance. She was the daughter of a 
respected, bedridden draper in an insignificant town, lost in the 
central labyrinth of England, if you like; yet what manner 
of man, confronted with her, would or could have denied her 
naive claim to dominion? She stood, in her mother's hoops, 
for the desire of the world. And in the innocence of her soul 
she knew it ! The heart of a young girl mysteriously speaks and 
tells her of her power long ere she can use her power. If she can 



302 THE BAINES SISTERS 

find nothing else to subdue, you may catch her in the early 
years subduing a gate-post or drawing homage from an empty 
chair. Sophia's experimental victim was Constance, with 
suspended needle and soft glance that shot out from the lowered 
face. 

Then Sophia fell, in stepping backwards; the pyramid was 
overbalanced; great distended rings of silk trembled and swayed 
gigantically on the floor, and Sophia's small feet lay like the feet 
of a doll on the rim of the largest circle, which curved and 
arched above them like a cavern's mouth. The abrupt transition 
of her features from assured pride to ludicrous astonishment 
and alarm was comical enough to have sent into wild unchari- 
table laughter any creature less humane than Constance. 
But Constance sprang to her, a single embodied instinct of 
benevolence, with her snub nose, and tried to raise her. 

"Oh, Sophia!" she cried compassionately — that voice 
seemed not to know the tones of reproof — "I do hope you've 
not messed it, because mother would be so " 

The words were interrupted by the sound of groans beyond 
the door leading to the bedrooms. The groans, indicating direst 
physical torment, grew louder. The two girls stared, wonder- 
struck and afraid, at the door, Sophia with her dark head raised, 
and Constance with her arms round Sophia's waist. The door 
opened, letting in a much-magnified sound of groans, and there 
entered a youngish, undersized man, who was frantically clutch- 
ing his head in his hands and contorting all the muscles of his 
face. On perceiving the sculptural group of two prone, in- 
terlocked girls, one enveloped in a crinoline, and the other with 
a wool-work bunch of flowers pinned to her knee, he jumped 
back, ceased groaning, arranged his face, and seriously tried to 
pretend that it was not he who had been vocal in anguish, 
that, indeed, he was just passing as a casual, ordinary way- 
farer through the showroom to the shop below. He blushed 
darkly; and the girls also blushed. 



ARNOLD BEXXETT 303 

''Oh, I beg pardon, I'm sure!'' said this youngish man sud- 
denly; and with a swift turn he disappeared whence he had come. 

He was Mr. Povey, a person universally esteemed, both 
within and without the shop, the surrogate of bedridden Mr. 
Baines, the unfailing comfort and stand-by of Mrs. Baines, 
the fount and radiating centre of order and discipline in the 
shop; a quiet, diffident, secretive, tedious, and obstinate 
youngish man, absolutely faithful, absolutely efficient in his 
sphere; without brilliance, without distinction; perhaps rather 
Uttle-minded, certainly narrow-minded; but what a force in 
the shop! The shop was inconceivable without Mr. Povey. 
He was under twenty and not out of his apprenticeship when Mr. 
Baines had been struck down, and he had at once proved his 
worth. Of the assistants, he alone slept in the house. His 
bedroom was next to that of his employer; there was a door 
between the two chambers, and the two steps led down from the 
larger to the less. 

The girls regained their feet, Sophia with Constance's help. 
It was not easy to right a capsized crinoline. They both began 
to laugh nervously, with a trace of hysteria. 

"I thought he'd gone to the dentist's," whispered Constance. 

Mr. Povey's toothache had been causing anxiety in the 
microcosm for two days, and it had been clearly understood 
at dinner that Thursday morning that Mr. Povey was to set 
forth to Oulsnam Bros., the dentists at Hillport, without any 
delay. Only on Thursdays and Sundays did Mr. Povey dine 
with the family. On other days he dined later, by himself, 
but at the family table, when Mrs. Baines or one of the as- 
sistants could "relieve" him in the shop. Before starting out 
to visit her elder sister at Axe, Mrs. Baines had insisted to 
Mr. Povey that he had eaten practically nothing but " slops" 
for twenty-four hours, and that if he was not careful she would 
have him on her hands. He had replied in his quietest, most 
sagacious, matter-of-fact tone — the tone that carried weight 



304 THE BAINES SISTERS 

with all who heard it — that he had only been waiting for 
Thursday afternoon, and should of course go instantly to 
Oulsnam's and have the thing attended to in a proper manner. 
He had even added that persons who put off going to the den- 
tist's were simply sowing trouble for themselves. 

None could possibly have guessed that Mr. Povey was afraid 
of going to the dentist's. But such was the case. He had not 
dared to set forth. The paragon of commonsense, pictured 
by most people as being somehow unliable to human frailties, 
could not yet screw himself up to the point of ringing a dentist's 
door-bell. 

"He did look funny," said Sophia. "I wonder what he 
thought. I couldn't help laughing!" 

Constance made no answer; but when Sophia had resumed 
her own clothes, and it was ascertained beyond doubt that the 
new dress had not suffered, and Constance herself was calmly 
stitching again, she said, poising her needle as she had poised 
it to watch Sophia: 

"I was just wondering whether something oughtn't to be done 
for Mr. Povey." 

"What?" Sophia demanded. 

"Has he gone back to his bedroom?" 

"Let's go and listen," said Sophia the adventuress. 

They went, through the showroom door, past the foot of the 
stairs leading to the second story, down the long corridor 
broken in the middle by two steps and carpeted with a narrow 
bordered carpet whose parallel lines increased its apparent 
length. They went on tiptoe, sticking close to one another. 
Mr. Povey 's door was slightly ajar. They listened; not a 
sound. 

"Mr. Povey!" Constance coughed discreetly. 

No reply. It was Sophia who pushed the door open. Con- 
stance made an elderly prim plucking gesture at Sophia's bare 
arm, but she followed Sophia gingerly into the forbidden room, 



ARNOLD BENNETT 305 

which was, however, empty. The bed had been ruffled, and on 
it lay a book, "The Harvest of a Quiet Eye." 

"Harvest of a quiet tooth!" Sophia whispered, giggling very 
low. 

"Hsh!" Constance put her lips forward. 

From the next room came a regular, muffled, oratorical sound 
as though some one had begun many years ago to address a 
meeting and had forgotten to leave off and never would leave 
off. They were familiar with the sound, and they quitted Mr. 
Povey's chamber in fear of disturbing it. At the same mo- 
ment Mr. Povey reappeared, this time in the drawing-room 
doorway at the other extremity of the long corridor. He 
seemed to be trying ineffectually to flee from his tooth as a 
murderer tries to flee from his conscience. 

"Oh, Mr. Povey!" said Constance quickly — for he had 
surprised them coming out of his bedroom; "we were just 
looking for you." 

"To see if we could do anything for you," Sophia added. 

"Oh no, thanks!" said Mr. Povey. 

Then he began to come down the corridor, slowly. 

"You haven't been to the dentist's," said Constance sym- 
pathetically. 

"No, I haven't," said Mr. Povey, as if Constance was in- 
dicating a fact which had escaped his attention. "The truth 
is, I thought it looked like rain, and if I 'd got wet — you see — " 

Miserable Mr. Povey! 

"Yes," said Constance, "you certainly ought to keep out 
of draughts. Don't you think it would be a good thing if you 
went and sat in the parlour? There's a fire there." 

"I shall be all right, thank you," said Mr. Povey. And 
after a pause: "Well, thanks, I will." 

The girls made way for him to pass them at the head of the 
twisting stairs which led down to the parlour. Constance fol- 
lowed, and Sophia followed Constance. 



306 THE BAINES SISTERS 

"Have father's chair," said Constance. 

There were two rocking-chairs with fluted backs covered 
by antimacassars, one on either side of the hearth. That to 
the left was still entitled "father's chair," though its owner had 
not sat in it since long before the Crimean war, and would 
never sit in it again. 

"I think I'd sooner have the other one," said Mr. Povey, 
"because it's on the right side, you see." And he touched his 
right cheek. 

Having taken Mrs. Baines's chair, he bent his face down to 
the fire, seeking comfort from its warmth. Sophia poked the 
fire, whereupon Mr. Povey abruptly withdrew his face. He 
then felt something light on his shoulders. Constance had 
taken the antimacassar from the back of the chair, and pro- 
tected him with it from the draughts. He did not instantly 
rebel, and therefore was permanently barred from rebellion. He 
was entrapped by the antimacassar. It formally constituted 
him an invalid, and Constance and Sophia his nurses. Con- 
stance drew the curtain across the street door. No draught 
could come from the window, for the window was not "made 
to open." The age of ventilation had not arrived. Sophia 
shut the other two doors. And, each near a door, the girls 
gazed at Mr. Povey behind his back, irresolute, but filled with a 
delicious sense of responsibility. 

The situation was on a different plane now. The serious- 
ness of Mr. Povey's toothache, which became more and more 
manifest, had already wiped out the ludicrous memory of the 
encounter in the showroom. Looking at these two big girls, 
with their short-sleeved black frocks and black aprons, and their 
smooth hair, and their composed serious faces, one would have 
judged them incapable of the least lapse from an archangelic 
primness; Sophia especially presented a marvellous imitation of 
saintly innocence. As for the toothache, its action on Mr. 
Povey was apparently periodic; it gathered to a crisis like a 



ARNOLD BENNETT 307 

wave, gradually, the torture increasing till the wave broke and 
left Mr. Povey exhausted, but free for a moment from pain. 
These crises recurred about once a minute. And now, accus- 
tomed to the presence of the young virgins, and having tacitly 
acknowledged by his acceptance of the antimacassar that his 
state was abnormal, he gave himself up frankly to affliction. 
He concealed nothing of his agony, which was fully displayed 
by sudden contortions of his frame, and frantic oscillations of 
the rocking-chair. Presently, as he lay back enfeebled in the 
wash of a spent wave, he murmured with a sick man's voice: 

"I suppose you haven't got any laudanum?" 

The girls started into life. "Laudanum, Mr. Povey?" 

"Yes, to hold in my mouth." 

He sat up, tense; another wave was forming. The excellent 
fellow was lost to all self-respect, all decency. 

"There's sure to be some in mother's cupboard," said 
Sophia. 

Constance, who bore Mrs. Baines's bunch of keys at her 
girdle, a solemn trust, moved a little fearfully to a corner cup- 
board which was hung in the angle to the right of the projecting 
fireplace, over a shelf on which stood a large copper tea-urn. 
That corner cupboard, of oak inlaid with maple and ebony 
in a simple border pattern, was typical of the room. It was 
of a piece with the deep green "flock" wall paper, and the 
tea-urn, and the rocking-chairs with their antimacassars, and 
the harmonium in rosewood with a Chinese paper-mache tea- 
caddy on the top of it; even with the carpet, certainly the 
most curious parlour carpet that ever was, being made of lengths 
of the stair-carpet sewn together side by side. That corner cup- 
board was already old in service; it had held the medicines of 
generations. It gleamed darkly with the grave and genuine 
polish which comes from ancient use alone. The key which 
Constance chose from her bunch was like the cupboard, smooth 
and shining with years; it fitted and turned very easily, yet 



308 THE BAINES SISTERS 

with a firm snap. The single wide door opened sedately as a 
portal. 

The girls examined the sacred interior, which had the air 
of being inhabited by an army of diminutive prisoners, each 
crying aloud with the full strength of its label to be set free 
on a mission. 

"There it is!" said Sophia eagerly. 

And there it was: a blue bottle, with a saffron label, " Caution. 
POISON. Laudanum. Charles Critchlow, M.P.S. Dispens- 
ing Chemist. St. Luke's Square, Bursley." 

Those large capitals frightened the girls. Constance took 
the bottle as she might have taken a loaded revolver, and she 
glanced at Sophia. Their omnipotent, all-wise mother was not 
present to tell them what to do. They, who had never decided, 
had to decide now. And Constance was the elder. Must this 
fearsome stuff, whose very name was a name of fear, be intro- 
duced in spite of printed warnings into Mr. Povey's mouth? 
The responsibility was terrifying. 

" Perhaps I'd just better ask Mr. Critchlow," Constance 
faltered. 

The expectation of beneficent laudanum had enlivened Mr. 
Povey, had already, indeed, by a sort of suggestion, half cured 
his toothache. 

"Oh no!" he said. "No need to ask Mr. Critchlow . . . 
Two or three drops in a little water." He showed impatience 
to be at the laudanum. 

The girls knew that an antipathy existed between the chemist 
and Mr. Povey. 

"It's sure to be all right," said Sophia. "I'll get the water." 

With youthful cries and alarms they succeeded in pouring 
four mortal dark drops (one more than Constance intended) 
into a cup containing a little water. And as they handed the 
cup to Mr. Povey their faces were the faces of affrighted comical 
conspirators. They felt so old and they looked so young. 



ARNOLD BENNETT 309 

Mr. Povey imbibed eagerly of the potion, put the cup on 
the mantlepiece, and then tilted his head to the right so as to 
submerge the affected tooth. In this posture he remained, 
awaiting the sweet influence of the remedy. The girls, out of a 
nice modesty, turned away, for Mr. Povey must not swallow the 
medicine, and they preferred to leave him unhampered in the 
solution of a delicate problem. When next they examined him, 
he was leaning back in the rocking-chair with his mouth open 
and his eyes shut. 

"Has it done you any good, Mr. Povey?" 

"I think I'll lie down on the sofa for a minute," was Mr. 
Povey 's strange reply; and forthwith he sprang up and flung 
himself on to the horse-hair sofa between the fireplace and the 
window, where he lay stripped of all his dignity, a mere beaten 
animal in a grey suit with peculiar coat-tails, and a very creased 
waistcoat, and a lapel that was planted with pins, and a paper 
collar and close-fitting paper cuffs. 

Constance ran after him with the antimacassar, which she 
spread softly on his shoulders; and Sophia put another one 
over his thin little legs, all drawn up. 

They then gazed at their handiwork, with secret self-accus- 
ations and the most dreadful misgivings. 

"He surely never swallowed it!" Constance whispered. 

"He's asleep, anyhow," said Sophia, more loudly. 

Mr. Povey was certainly asleep, and his mouth was very 
wide open — like a shop-door. The only question was whether 
his sleep was not an eternal sleep; the only question was whether 
he was not out of his pain for ever. 

Then he snored — horribly; his snore seemed a portent of 
disaster. 

Sophia approached him as though he were a bomb, and 
stared, growing bolder, into his mouth. 

"Oh, Con," she summoned her sister, "do come and look! 
It's too droll!" 



310 THE BAINES SISTERS 

In an instant all their four eyes were exploring the singular 
landscape of Mr. Povey's mouth. In a corner, to the right of 
that interior, was one sizeable fragment of a tooth, that was 
attached to Mr. Povey by the slenderest tie, so that at each 
respiration of Mr. Povey, when his body slightly heaved and 
the gale moaned in the cavern, this tooth moved separately, 
showing that its long connection with Mr. Povey was drawing 
to a close. 

"That's the one," said Sophia, pointing. "And it's as loose 
as anything. Did you ever see such a funny thing?" 

The extreme funniness of the thing had lulled in Sophia the 
fear of Mr. Povey's sudden death. 

"I'll see how much he's taken," said Constance, preoccu- 
pied, going to the mantelpiece. 

"Why, I do believe — " Sophia began, and then stopped, 
glancing at the sewing-machine, which stood next to the sofa. 

It was a Howe sewing-machine. It had a little tool-drawer, 
and in the tool-drawer was a small pair of pliers. Constance, 
engaged in sniffing at the lees of the potion in order to estimate 
its probable deadliness, heard the well-known click of the 
little tool-drawer, and then she saw Sophia nearing Mr. Povey's 
mouth with the pliers. 

"Sophia I" she exclaimed, aghast. "What in the name of 
goodness are you doing?" 

"Nothing," said Sophia. 

The next instant Mr. Povey sprang up out of his laudanum 
dream. 

"It jumps!" he muttered; and, after a reflective pause, "but 
it's much better." He had at any rate escaped death. 

Sophia's right hand was behind her back. 

Just then a hawker passed down King Street, crying mussels 
and cockles. 

"Oh!" Sophia almost shrieked. "Do let's have mussels and 
cockles for tea!" And she rushed to the door, and unlocked 



ARNOLD BENNETT 311 

and opened it, regardless of the risk of draughts to Mr. 
Povey. 

In those days people often depended upon the caprices of 
hawkers for the tastiness of their teas; but it was an adventurous 
age, when errant knights of commerce were numerous and enter- 
prising. You went on to your doorstep, caught your meal 
as it passed, withdrew, cooked it and ate it, quite in the manner 
of the early Briton. 

Constance was obliged to join her sister on the top step. 
Sophia descended to the second step. 

"Fresh mussels and cockles all alive oh!" bawled the hawker, 
looking across the road in the April breeze. He was the cele- 
brated Hollins, a professional Irish drunkard, aged in inquity, 
who cheerfully saluted magistrates in the street, and referred 
to the workhouse, which he occasionally visited, as the Bastile. 

Sophia was trembling from head to foot. 

"What are you laughing at, you silly thing?" Constance de- 
manded. 

Sophia surreptitiously showed the pliers, which she had partly 
thrust into her pocket. Between their points was a most per- 
ceptible, and even recognizable, fragment of Mr. Povey. 

This was the crown of Sophia's career as a perpetrator of the 
unutterable. 

"What I" Constance's face showed the final contortions of 
that horrified incredulity which is forced to believe. 

Sophia nudged her violently to remind her that they were in 
the street, and also quite close to Mr. Povey. 

"Now, my little missies," said the vile Hollins. "Three 
pence a pint, and how's your honored mother to-day? Yes, 
fresh, so help me God!" 



XXIV. ANNIXTER 1 

Frank Norris 

[This selection first gives a sketch of Buck Annixter, the chief person in 
Frank Norris's novel, and then proceeds to a point some fifty pages on in the 
story where Annixter acts in character. Presley, who plays the role of observer 
in the tale, is merely making a casual call on Annixter, but his presence on the 
stage during the character sketch somewhat relieves its formality. Annixter is a 
violently one-sided person. All his experience has served to warp rather than to 
develop him. He is indeed such an extreme "case," that without this detailed 
character sketch the crucial incident of the second part of our selection would hardly 
appear plausible.] 



When Presley reached Annixter's ranch house, he found 
young Annixter himself stretched in his hammock behind the 
mosquito-bar on the front porch, reading David Copperjield 
and gorging himself with dried prunes. 

Annixter — after the two had exchanged greetings — com- 
plained of terrific colics all the preceding night. His stomach 
was out of whack, but you bet he knew how to take care of him- 
self; the last spell, he had consulted a doctor at Bonneville, 
a gibbering busy-face who had filled him up to the neck with 
a dose of some hog- wash stuff that had made him worse — a 
healthy lot the doctors knew, anyhow. His case was peculiar. 
He knew; prunes were what he needed, and by the pound. 

Annixter, who worked the Quien Sabe ranch — some four 
thousand acres of rich clay and heavy loams — was a very 
young man, younger even than Presley, like him a college gradu- 
ate. He looked never a year older than he was. He was 
smooth-shaven and lean built. But his youthful appearance 
was offset by a certain male cast of countenance, the lower lip 

1 Reprinted from The Octopus with the kind permission of Doubleday, Page 
and Company. 



FRANK NORRIS 313 

thrust out, the chin large and deeply cleft. His university course 
had hardened rather than polished him. He still remained one 
of the people, rough almost to insolence, direct in speech, 
intolerant in his opinions, relying upon absolutely no one but 
himself; yet, with all this, of an astonishing degree of intel- 
ligence, and possessed of an executive ability little short of posi- 
tive genius. He was a ferocious worker, allowing himself no 
pleasures, and exacting the same degree of energy from all his 
subordinates. He was widely hated, and as widely trusted. 
Every one spoke of his crusty temper and bullying disposition, 
invariably qualifying the statement with a commendation of 
his resources and capabilities. The devil of a driver, a hard 
man to get along with, obstinate, contrary, cantankerous ; 
but brains! No doubt of that; brains to his boots. One would 
like to see the man who could get ahead of him on a deal. Twice 
he had been shot at, once from ambush on Osterman's ranch, 
and once by one of his own men whom he had kicked from the 
sacking platform of his harvester for gross negligence. At 
college, he had specialized on finance, political economy, and 
scientific agriculture. After his graduation (he stood almost 
at the very top of his class) he had returned and obtained the 
degree of civil engineer. Then suddenly he had taken a notion 
that a practical knowledge of law was indispensable to a modern 
farmer. In eight months he did the work of three years, study- 
ing for his bar examinations. His method of study was char- 
acteristic. He reduced all the material of his text-books to 
notes. Tearing out the leaves of these note-books, he pasted 
them upon the walls of his room; then, in his shirt-sleeves, 
a cheap cigar in his teeth, his hands in his pockets, he walked 
around and around the room, scowling fiercely at his notes, 
memorizing, devouring, digesting. At intervals, he drank 
great cupfuls of unsweetened, black coffee. When the bar 
examinations were held, he was admitted at the very head of 
all the applicants, and was complimented by the judge. Im- 



3H ANNIXTER 

mediately afterwards he collapsed with nervous prostration; 
his stomach "got out of whack," and he all but died in a Sacra- 
mento boarding-house, obstinately refusing to have anything 
to do with doctors, whom he vituperated as a rabble of quacks, 
dosing himself with a patent medicine and stuffing himself almost 
to bursting with liver pills and dried prunes. 

He had taken a trip to Europe after this sickness to put 
himself completely to rights. He intended to be gone a year, 
but returned at the end of six weeks, fulminating abuse of 
European cooking. Nearly his entire time had been spent in 
Paris; but of this sojourn he had brought back but two sou- 
venirs, an electro-plated bill-hook and an empty bird cage 
which had tickled his fancy immensely. 

He was wealthy. Only a year previous to this his father — 
a widower, who had amassed a fortune in land speculation — 
had died, and Annixter, the only son, had come into the inheri- 
tance. 

For Presley, Annixter professed a great admiration, holding 
in deep respect the man who could rhyme words, deferring to 
him whenever there was question of literature or works of 
fiction. No doubt there was not much use in poetry, and as 
for novels, to his mind there were only Dickens's works. Every- 
thing else was a lot of lies. But just the same, it took brains 
to grind out a poem. It wasn't every one who could rhyme 
"brave" and "glaive," and make sense out of it. Sure not. 

But Presley's case was a notable exception. On no occasion 
was Annixter prepared to accept another man's opinion without 
reserve. In conversation with him it was almost impossible 
to make any direct statement, however trivial, that he would 
accept without either modification or open contradiction. 
He had a passion for violent discussion. He would argue upon 
every subject in the range of human knowledge, from astronomy 
to the tariff, from the doctrine of predestination to the height 
of a horse. Never would he admit himself to be mistaken; 



FRANK NORRIS 315 

when cornered, he would intrench himself behind the remark, 
" Yes, that's all very well. In some ways, it is, and then, again, 
in some ways, it isn't." 

Singularly enough, he and Presley were the best of friends. 
More than once, Presley marvelled at this state of affairs, telling 
himself that he and Annixter had nothing in common. In all 
his circle of acquaintances, Presley was the one man with whom 
Annixter had never quarrelled. The two men were diametrically 
opposed in temperament. Presley was easy-going; Annixter, 
alert. Presley was a confirmed dreamer, irresolute, inactive, 
with a strong tendency to melancholy; the young farmer was 
a man of affairs, decisive, combative, whose only reflection 
upon his interior economy was a morbid concern in the vagaries 
of his stomach. Yet the two never met without a mutual pleas- 
ure, taking a genuine interest in each other's affairs, and often 
putting themselves to great inconvenience to be of trifling service 
to help one another. 

As a last characteristic, Annixter pretended to be a woman- 
hater, for no other reason than that he was a very bull-calf 
of awkwardness in feminine surroundings. Feemales! Rot! 
There was a fine way for a man to waste his time and his good 
money, lally gagging with a lot of feemales. No, thank you; 
none of it in his, if you please. Once only he had an affair — 
a timid, little creature in a glove-cleaning establishment in 
Sacramento, whom he had picked up, Heaven knew how. 
After his return to his ranch, a correspondence had been main- 
tained between the two, Annixter taking the precaution to type- 
write his letters, and never affixing his signature, in an excess 
of prudence. He furthermore made carbon copies of all his 
letters, filing them away in a compartment of his safe. Ah, 
it would be a clever feemale who would get him into a mess. 
Then, suddenly smitten with a panic terror that he had com- 
mitted himself, that he was involving himself too deeply, he had 
abruptly sent the little woman about her business. It was 



316 ANNIXTER 

his only love affair. After that, he kept himself free. No 
petticoats should ever have a hold on him. Sure not. 

[Annixter has trouble on his ranch. Some of his sheep break through the wire 
fence at a point where the railroad passes in a cut. Scores of the sheep, crowding 
into this cut, are killed by an engine. It is typical of Annixter that this impersonal 
accident should anger him personally against the railroad. It is not his first griev- 
ance against the railroad, however. For like other California ranchmen, who find 
themselves at the mercy of the railroad (the "octopus") in the matter of getting 
their produce to market, he has already many grievances. But this accident plays 
as great a part in Annixter's imagination as other more personal affairs. A group 
of ranchmen agree to meet at Magnus Derrick's ranch, Los Muertos, and discuss 
the general situation. Annixter is invited to join them. But meanwhile other 
irritating incidents occur which put his presence there somewhat in doubt. The 
next passage begins after the accident to his sheep and on the day of the meeting 
at Magnus Derrick's. It involves the character of Hilma Tree, who later plays 
a most important part in Annixter's life.] 

II 

In connection with his ranch, Annixter ran a dairy farm 
on a very small scale, making just enough butter and cheese 
for the consumption of the ranch's personnel. Old man Tree, 
his wife, and his daughter Hilma looked after the dairy. But 
there was not always work enough to keep the three of them 
occupied and Hilma at times made herself useful in other ways. 
As often as not she lent a hand in the kitchen, and two or three 
times a week she took her mother's place in looking after Annix- 
ter's house, making the beds, putting his room to rights, bringing 
his meals up from the kitchen. For the last summer she had 
been away visiting with relatives in one of the towns on the 
coast. But the week previous to this she had returned and 
Annixter had come upon her suddenly one day in the dairy, 
making cheese, the sleeves of her crisp blue shirt waist rolled 
back to her very shoulders. Annixter had carried away with 
him a clear-cut recollection of these smooth white arms of hers, 
bare to the shoulder, very round and cool and fresh. He 
would not have believed that a girl so young should have had 



FRANK NORRIS 317 

arms so big and perfect. To his surprise he found himself 
thinking of her after he had gone to bed that night, and in the 
morning when he woke he was bothered to know whether he had 
dreamed about Hilma's fine white arms over night. Then 
abruptly he had lost patience with himself for being so occupied 
with the subject, raging and furious with all the breed of fee- 
males — a fine way for a man to waste his time. He had had 
his experience with the timid little creature in the glove-cleaning 
establishment in Sacramento. That was enough. Feemales! 
Rot! None of them in his, thank you. He had seen Hilma 
Tree give him a look in the dairy. Aha, he saw through her! 
She was trying to get a hold on him, was she? He would show 
her. Wait till he saw her again. He would send her about her 
business in a hurry. He resolved upon a terrible demeanor 
in the presence of the dairy girl — a great show of indifference, 
a fierce masculine nonchalance; and when, the next morning, 
she brought him his breakfast, he had been smitten dumb as 
soon as she entered the room, glueing his eyes upon his plate, his 
elbows close to his side, awkward, clumsy, overwhelmed with 
constraint. 

While true to his convictions as a woman-hater and genuinely 
despising Hilma both as a girl and as an inferior, the idea 
of her worried him. Most of all, he was angry with himself 
because of his inane sheepishness when she was about. He at 
first had told himself that he was a fool not to be able to ignore 
her existence as hitherto, and then that he was a greater fool 
not to take advantage of his position. Certainly he had not the 
remotest idea of any affection, but Hilma was a fine looking 
girl. He imagined an affair with her. 

As he reflected upon the matter now, scowling abstractedly 
at the button of the electric bell, turning the whole business over 
in his mind, he remembered that to-day was butter-making day 
and that Mrs. Tree would be occupied in the dairy. That meant 
that Hilma would take her place. He turned to the mirror of 



318 ANNIXTER 

the sideboard, scrutinizing his reflection with grim disfavor. 
After a moment, rubbing the roughened surface of his chin the 
wrong way, he muttered to his image in the glass: 

"What a mug! Good Lord! what a looking mug!" Then, 
after a moment's silence, "Wonder if that fool feemaie will be 
here to-day." 

He crossed over into his bedroom and peeped around the 
edge of the lowered curtain. The window looked out upon 
the skeleton-like tower of the artesian well and the cook-house 
and dairy-house close beside it. As he watched, he saw Hilma 
come out from the cook-house and hurry across toward the kit- 
chen. Evidently, she was going to see about his dinner. But 
as she passed by the artesian well, she met young Delaney, one 
of Annixter's hands, coming up the trail by the irrigating ditch, 
leading his horse toward the stables, a great coil of barbed 
wire in his gloved hands and a pair of nippers thrust into his 
belt. No doubt, he had been mending the break in the line 
fence by the Long Trestle. Annixter saw him take off his wide- 
brimmed hat as he met Hilma, and the two stood there for some 
moments talking together. Annixter even heard Hilma laughing 
very gayly at something Delaney was saying. She patted his 
horse's neck affectionately, and Delaney, drawing the nippers 
from his belt, made as if to pinch her arm with them. She 
caught at his wrist and pushed him away, laughing again. 
To Annixter's mind the pair seemed astonishingly intimate. 
Brusquely his anger flamed up. 

Ah, that was it, was it? Delaney and Hilma had an under- 
standing between themselves. They carried on their affairs 
right out there in the open, under his very eyes. It was abso- 
lutely disgusting. Had they no sense of decency, those two? 
Well, this ended it. He would stop that sort of thing short off; 
none of that on his ranch if he knew it. No, sir. He would 
pack that girl off before he was a day older. He wouldn't 
have that kind about the place. Not much! She'd have to 



FRANK NORRIS 319 

get out. He would talk to old man Tree about it this afternoon. 
Whatever happened, he insisted upon morality. 

"And my dinner!" he suddenly exclaimed. "I've got to 
wait and go hungry — and maybe get sick again — while they 
carry on their disgusting love-making." 

He turned about on the instant, and striding over to the 
electric bell, rang it, again with all his might. 

"When that feemale gets up here," he declared, "I'll just 
find out why I've got to wait like this. I'll take her down, 
to the Queen's taste. I'm lenient enough, Lord knows, but 1 
don't propose to be imposed upon all the time." 

A few moments later, while Annixter was pretending to read 
the county newspaper by the window in the dining-room, Hilma 
came in to set the table. At the time Annixter had his feet 
cocked on the window ledge and was smoking a cigar, but as 
soon as she entered the room he — without premeditation — 
brought his feet down to the floor and crushed out the lighted 
tip of his cigar under the window ledge. Over the top of the 
paper he glanced at her covertly from time to time. 

Though Hilma was only nineteen years old, she was a large 
girl with all the development of a much older woman. There 
was a certain generous amplitude to the full, round curves of 
her hips and shoulders that suggested the precocious maturity 
of a healthy, vigorous animal life passed under the hot southern 
sun of a half-tropical country. She was, one knew at a glance, 
warm-blooded, full-blooded, with an even, comfortable balance 
of temperament. Her neck was thick, and sloped to her shoul- 
ders, with full, beautiful curves, and under her chin and under 
her ears the flesh was as white and smooth as floss satin, shading 
exquisitely to a faint delicate brown on her nape at the roots of 
her hair. Her throat rounded to meet her chin and cheek, with 
a soft swell of the skin, tinted pale amber in the shadows, but 
blending by barely perceptible gradations to the sweet, warm 
flush of her cheek. This color on her temples was just touched 



320 ANNIXTER 

with a certain blueness where the flesh was thin over the fine 
veining underneath. Her eyes were light brown, and so wide 
open that on the slightest provocation the full disc of the pupil 
was disclosed; the lids — just a fraction of a shade darker than 
the hue of her face — were edged with lashes that were almost 
black. While these lashes were not long, they were thick and 
rimmed her eyes with a fine, thin line. Her mouth was rather 
large, the lips shut tight, and nothing could have been more 
graceful, more charming than the outline of these full lips of 
hers, and her round white chin, modulating downward with a 
certain delicious roundness to her neck, her throat and the 
sweet feminine amplitude of her breast. The slightest move- 
ment of her head and shoulders sent a gentle undulation through 
all this beauty of soft outlines and smooth surfaces, the delicate 
amber shadows deepening or fading or losing themselves imper- 
ceptibly in the pretty rose-color of her cheeks, or the dark, 
warm-tinted shadow of her thick brown hair. 

Her hair seemed almost to have a life of its own, almost 
Medusa-like, thick, glossy and moist, lying in heavy, sweet- 
smelling masses over her forehead, over her small ears with their 
pink lobes, and far down upon her nape. Deep in between the 
coils and braids it was of a bitumen brownness, but in the sun- 
light it vibrated with a sheen like tarnished gold. 

Like most large girls, her movements were not hurried, 
and this indefinite deliberateness of gesture, this slow grace, this 
certain ease of attitude, was a charm that was all her own. 

But Hilma's greatest charm of all was her simplicity — a 
simplicity that was not only in the calm regularity of her face, 
with its statuesque evenness of contour, its broad surface of 
cheek and forehead and the masses of her straight smooth hair, 
but was apparent as well in the long line of her carriage, from 
her foot to her waist and the single deep swell from her waist 
to her shoulder. Almost unconsciously she dressed in harmony 
with this note of simplicity, and on this occasion wore a skirt 



FRANK NORRIS 321 

of plain dark blue calico and a white shirt waist crisp from the 
laundry. 

And yet, for all the dignity of this rigorous simplicity, there 
were about Hilma small contradictory suggestions of feminine 
daintiness, charming beyond words. Even Annixter could not 
help noticing that her feet were narrow and slender, and that 
the little steel buckles of her low shoes were polished bright, and 
that her finger-tips and nails were of a fine rosy pink. 

He found himself wondering how it was that a girl in Hilma's 
position should be able to keep herself so pretty, so trim, so 
clean and feminine, but he reflected that her work was chiefly 
in the dairy, and even there of the lightest order. She was on 
the ranch more for the sake of being with her parents than from 
any necessity of employment. Vaguely he seemed to under- 
stand that, in that great new land of the West, in the open-air, 
healthy life of the ranches, where the conditions of earning a 
livelihood were of the easiest, refinement among the younger 
women was easily to be found — not the refinement of education, 
nor culture, but the natural, intuitive refinement of the woman, 
not as yet defiled and crushed out by the sordid, strenuous 
life-struggle of over-populated districts. It was the original, 
intended, and natural delicacy of an elemental existence, close 
to nature, close to life, close to the great, kindly earth. 

As Hilma laid the table-spread, her arms opened to their 
widest reach, the white cloth setting a little glisten of reflected 
light underneath the chin, Annixter stirred in his place uneasily. 

"Oh, it's you, is it, Miss Hilma?" he remarked, for the sake 
of saying something. "Good-morning. How do you do?" 

" Goo J-morning, sir," she answered, looking up, resting for 
a moment on her outspread palms. "I hope you are better." 

Her voice was low in pitch and of a velvety huskiness, seeming 
to come more from her chest than from her throat. 

"Well, I'm some better," growled Annixter. Then suddenly 
he demanded, "Where's that dog?" 



322 ANNIXTER 

A decrepit Irish setter sometimes made his appearance in and 
about the ranch house, sleeping under the bed and eating when 
anyone about the place thought to give him a plate of bread. 

Annixter had no particular interest in the dog. For weeks 
at a time he ignored its existence. It was not his dog. But 
to-day it seemed as if he could not let the subject rest. For no 
reason that he could explain even to himself, he recurred to it 
continually. He questioned Hilma minutely all about the dog. 
Who owned him? How old did she think he was? Did she 
imagine the dog was sick? Where had he got to? Maybe he 
had crawled off to die somewhere. He recurred to the subject 
all through the meal; apparently, he could talk of nothing else, 
and as she finally went away after clearing off the table, he 
went onto the porch and called after her: 

"Say, Miss Hilma." 

"Yes, sir." 

"If that dog turns up again you let me know." 

"Very well, sir." 

Annixter returned to the dining-room and sat down in the 
chair he had just vacated. 

"To hell with the dog!" he muttered, enraged, he could not 
tell why. 

When at length he allowed his attention to wander from 
Hilma Tree, he found that he had been staring fixedly at a 
thermometer upon the wall opposite, and this made him think 
that it had long been his intention to buy a fine barometer, 
an instrument that could be accurately depended on. But the 
barometer suggested the present condition of the weather and 
the likelihood of rain. In such case, much was to be done in 
the way of getting the seed ready and overhauling his ploughs 
and drills. He had not been away from the house in two days. 
It was time to be up and doing. He determined to put in the 
afternoon "taking a look around," and have a late supper. 
He would not go to Los Muertos; he would ignore Magnus 



FRANK NORRIS 323 

Derrick's invitation. Possibly, though, it might be well to run 
over and see what was up. 

" If I do, " he said to himself, "I'll ride the buckskin." 

The buckskin was a half-broken broncho that fought like 
a fiend under the saddle until the quirt and spur brought her 
to her senses. But Annixter remembered that the Trees' 
cottage, next the dairy-house, looked out upon the stables, and 
perhaps Hilma would see him while he was mounting the horse 
and be impressed with his courage. 

"Huh!" grunted Annixter under his breath, "I should like 
to see that fool Delaney try to bust that bronch. That's 
what I'd like to see." 

However, as Annixter stepped from the porch of the ranch 
house, he was surprised to notice a grey haze over all the sky; 
the sunlight was gone; there was a sense of coolness in the air; 
the weather-vane on the barn — a fine golden trotting horse 
with flamboyant mane and tail — was veering in a southwest 
wind. Evidently the expected rain was close at hand. 

Annixter crossed over to the stables reflecting that he could 
ride the buckskin to the Trees' cottage and tell Hilma that he 
would not be home to supper. The conference at Los Muertos 
would be an admirable excuse for this, and upon the spot he 
resolved to go over to the Derrick ranch house, after all. 

As he passed the Trees' cottage, he observed with satis- 
faction that Hilma was going to and fro in the front room. If 
he busted the buckskin in the yard before the stable she* could 
not help but see. Annixter found the stableman in the back 
of the barn greasing the axles of the buggy, and ordered him 
to put the saddle on the buckskin. 

"Why, I don't think she's here, sir," answered the stableman, 
glancing into the stalls. "No, I remember now. Delaney took 
her out just after dinner. His other horse went lame and he 
wanted to go down by the Long Trestle to mend the fence. 
He started out, but had to come back," 



324 ANNIXTER 

"Oh, Delaney got her, did he?" 

" Yes, sir. He had a circus with her, but he busted her right 
enough. When it comes to horse, Delaney can wipe the eye 
of any cow-puncher in the county, I guess." 

"He can, can he?" observed Annixter. Then after a silence, 
"Well, all right, Billy; put my saddle on whatever you've got 
here. I'm going over to Los Muertos this afternoon." 

"Want to look out for the rain, Mr. Annixter," remarked 
Billy. "Guess we'll have rain before night." 

"I'll take a rubber coat," answered Annixter. "Bring the 
horse up to the ranch house when you're ready." 

Annixter returned to the house to look for his rubber coat 
in deep disgust, not permitting himself to glance toward the 
dairy-house and the Trees' cottage. But as he reached the 
porch he heard the telephone ringing his call. It was Presley, 
who rang up from Los Muertos. He had heard from Harran 
that Annixter was, perhaps, coming over that evening. If 
he came, would he mind bringing over his — Presley's — 
bicycle. He had left it at the Quien Sabe ranch the day before 
and had forgotten to come back that way for it. 

"Well," objected Annixter, a surly note in his voice, "' was 
going to ride over." 

"Oh, never mind, then," returned Presley easily. "I was 
to blame for forgetting it. Don't bother about it. I'll come 
over some of these days and get it myself." 

Anriixter hung up the transmitter with a vehement wrench 
and stamped out of the room, banging the door. He found 
his rubber coat hanging in the hallway and swung into it with a 
fierce movement of the shoulders that all but started the seams. 
Everything seemed to conspire to thwart him. It was just 
like that absent-minded crazy poet, Presley, to forget his wheel. 
Well, he could come after it himself. He, Annixter, would ride 
some horse, anyhow. When he came out upon the porch he 
saw the wheel leaning against the fence where Presley had left 



FRANK NORRIS 325 

it. If it stayed much longer the rain would catch it. Annixter 
ripped out an oath. At every moment his ill-humor was in- 
creasing. Yet, for all that, he went back to the stable, pushing 
the bicycle before him, and countermanded his order, directing 
the stableman to get the buggy ready. He himself carefully 
stowed Presley's bicycle under the seat, covering it with a couple 
of empty sacks and a tarpaulin carriage cover. 

While he was doing this, the stableman uttered an excla- 
mation and paused in the act of backing the horse into the shafts, 
holding up a hand, listening. 

From the hollow roof of the barn and from the thick velvet- 
like padding of dust over the ground outside, and from among 
the leaves of the few nearby trees and plants there came a vast 
monotonous murmur that seemed to issue from all quarters of 
the horizon at once, a prolonged and subdued rustling sound, 
steady, even, persistent. 

" There's your rain," announced the stableman. "The 
first of the season." 

"And I got to be out in it," fumed Annixter, "and I suppose 
those swine will quit work on the big barn now." 

When the buggy was finally ready, he put on his rubber 
coat, climbed in, and without waiting for the stableman to 
raise the top, drove out into the rain, a new-lit cigar in his 
teeth. As he passed the dairy-house, he saw Hilma standing 
in the doorway, holding out her hand to the rain, her face turned 
upward toward the grey sky, amused and interested at this 
first shower of the wet season. She was so absorbed that she 
did not see Annixter, and his clumsy nod in her direction passed 
unnoticed. 

"She did it on purpose," Annixter told himself, chewing 
fiercely on his cigar. "Cuts me now, hey? Well, this does 
settle it. She leaves this ranch before I'm a day older." 

He decided that he would put off his tour of inspection 
till the next day. Travelling in the buggy as he did, he must 



326 ANNIXTER 

keep to the road which led to Derricks, in very roundabout 
fashion, by way of Guadalajara. This rain would reduce the 
thick dust of the road to two feet of viscid mud. It would take 
him quite three hours to reach the ranch house on Los Muertos. 
He thought of Delaney and the buckskin and ground his teeth. 
And all this trouble, if you please, because of a fool feemale 
girl. A fine way for him to waste his time. Well, now he was 
done with it. His decision was taken now. She should pack. 

Steadily the rain increased. There was no wind. The thick 
veil of wet descended straight from sky to earth, blurring 
distant outlines, spreading a vast sheen of grey over all the land- 
scape. Its volume became greater, the prolonged murmuring 
note took on a deeper tone. At the gate to the road which led 
across Dyke's hop-fields toward Guadalajara, Annixter was 
obliged to descend and raise the top of the buggy. In doing 
so he caught the flesh of his hand in the joint of the iron elbow 
that supported the top and pinched it cruelly. It was the last 
misery, the culmination of a long train of wretchedness. On 
the instant he hated Hilma Tree so fiercely that his sharply 
set teeth all but bit this cigar in two. 

While he was grabbing and wrenching at the buggytop, 
the water from his hat brim dripping down upon his nose, 
the horse, restive under the drench of the rain, moved uneasily. 

"Yah-h-h you!" he shouted, inarticulate with exasperation. 
"You — you — Gor-r-r, wait till I get hold of you. Whoa, 
you!" 

But there was an interruption. Delaney, riding the buck- 
skin, came around a bend in the road at a slow trot and Annixter, 
getting into the buggy again, found himself face to face with him. 

"Why, hello, Mr. Annixter," said he, pulling up. "Kind 
of sort of wet, isn't it?" 

Annixter, his face suddenly scarlet, sat back in his place 
abruptly, exclaiming: 

"Oh — oh, there you are, are you?" 



FRANK NORRIS 327 

"I've been down there," explained Delaney, with a motion 
of his head toward the railroad, "to mend that break in the 
fence by the Long Trestle and I thought while I was about it 
I'd follow down along the fence toward Guadalajara to see if 
there were any more breaks. But I guess it's all right." 

"Oh, you guess it's all right, do you?" observed Annixter 
through his teeth. 

"Why — why — yes," returned the other, bewildered at the 
truculent ring in Annixter' s voice. "I mended that break 
by the Long Trestle just now and " 

"Well, why didn't you mend it a week ago?" shouted An- 
nixter wrathfully. "I've been looking for you all the morning, 
I have, and who told you you could take that buckskin? And 
the sheep were all over the right of way last night because of that 
break, and here that filthy pip, S. Behrman, comes down here 
this morning and wants to make trouble for me." Suddenly 
he cried out, "What do 1 feed you for? What do I keep you 
around here for? Think it's just to fatten up your carcass, 
hey?" 

"Why, Mr. Annixter " began Delaney. 

"And don't talk to me," vociferated the other, exciting 
himself with his own noise. "Don't you say a word to me even 
to apologize. If I've spoken to you once about that break, 
I've spoken fifty times." 

"Why, sir," declared Delaney, beginning to get indignant, 
"the sheep did it themselves last night." 

"I told you not to talk to me," clamored Annixter. 

"But, say, look here " 

"Get off the ranch. You get off the ranch. And taking 
that buckskin against my express orders. I won't have your 
kind about the place, not much. I'm easy-going enough, 
Lord knows, but I don't propose to be imposed on all the time. 
Pack off, you understand, and do it lively. Go to the foreman 
and tell him I told him to pay you off and then clear out. And, 



328 ANNIXTER 

you hear me" he concluded, with a menacing outthrust of his 
lower jaw, "you hear me, if I catch you hanging around the 
ranch house after this, or if I so much as see you on Quien 
Sabe, I '11 show you the way off of it, my friend, at the toe of my 
boot. Now, then, get out of the way and let me pass." 

Angry beyond the power of retort, Delaney drove the spurs 
into the buckskin and passed the buggy in a single bound. 
Annixter gathered up the reins and drove on, muttering to 
himself, and occasionally looking back to observe the buckskin 
flying toward the ranch house in a spattering shower of mud, 
Delaney urging her on, his head bent down against the falling 
rain. 

"Huh," grunted Annixter with grim satisfaction, a certain 
sense of good humor at length returning to him, "that just 
about takes the saleratus out of your dough, my friend." 



XXV. BATHSHEBA AND GABRIEL OAK 1 

Thomas Hardy 

[This selection pictures Bathsheba Everdene and Gabriel Oak, first in a char- 
acterizing situation at the beginning of the novel, then in a marking incident a hun- 
dred pages later. In the characterizing situation, Bathsheba appears to have her 
share of feminine vanity and Gabriel his share of masculine stolidity. But before 
the marking incident occurs both characters have been through experiences which 
considerably modify them. 3 



When Farmer Oak smiled, the corners of his mouth spread 
till they were within an unimportant distance of his ears, his 
eyes were reduced to mere chinks, and diverging wrinkles ap- 
peared round them, extending upon his countenance like the 
rays in a rudimentary sketch of the rising sun. 

His Christian name was Gabriel, and on working-days he was 
a young man of sound judgment, easy motions, proper dress, 
and general good character. 

On Sundays he was a man of misty views, rather given to 
a postponing treatment of things, whose best clothes and seven- 
and sixpenny umbrella were always hampering him; upon the 
whole, one who felt himself to occupy morally that vast middle 
space of Laodicean neutrality which lay between the sacrament 
people of the parish and the drunken division of its inhabitants 
— that is, he went to church, but yawned privately by the time 
the congregation reached the Nicene Creed, and thought of 
what there would be for dinner when he meant to be listening 
to the sermon. Or, to state his character as it stood in the scale 
of public opinion, when his friends and critics were in tantrums, 
he was considered rather a bad man; when they were pleased, 
he was rather a good man; when they were neither, he was a 

1 Reprinted from Far from the Madding Crowd. 



330 BATHSHEBA AND GABRIEL OAK 

man whose moral color was a kind of pepper-and-salt mixture. 
Since he lived six times as many working-days as Sundays, 
Oak's appearance in his old clothes was most peculiarly his own 
— the mental picture formed by his neighbors always presenting 
him as dressed in that way when their imaginations answered 
to the thought "Gabriel Oak." He wore a low-crowned felt 
hat spread out at the base by tight jamming upon the head for 
security in high winds, and a coat like Dr. Johnson's, his lower 
extremities being incased in ordinary leather leggings and boots 
emphatically large, affording to each foot a roomy apartment 
so constructed that any wearer might stand in a river all day 
long and know nothing about it — their maker being a con- 
scientious man who always endeavored to compensate for any 
weakness in his cut by unstinted dimension and solidity. 

Mr. Oak carried about him, by way of watch, what may be 
called a small silver clock; in other words, it was a watch as 
to shape and intention, and a small clock as to size. This 
instrument being several years older than Oak's grandfather, 
had the peculiarity of going either too fast or not at all. The 
smaller of the two hands, too, occasionally slipped round on the 
pivot, and thus, though the minutes were told with the greatest 
precision, nobody could be quite certain of the hour they belonged 
to. The stopping peculiarity of his watch Oak remedied by 
thumps and shakes, when it always went on again immediately, 
and he escaped any evil consequences from the other two 
defects by constant comparisons with and observations of the 
sun and stars, and by pressing his face close to the glass of his 
neighbors' windows when passing by their houses, till he could 
discern the hour marked by the green-faced time-keepers within. 
It may be mentioned that Oak's fob, being painfully difficult 
of access, by reason of its somewhat high situation in the waist- 
band of his trousers (which also lay at a remote height under his 
waistcoat), the watch was as a necessity pulled out by throwing 
the body extremely to one side, compressing the mouth and 



THOMAS HARDY 331 

face to a mere mass of wrinkles on account of the exertion 
required, and drawing up the watch by its chain, like a bucket 
from a well. 

But some thoughtful persons, who had seen him walking 
across one of his fields on a certain December morning — 
sunny and exceedingly mild — might have regarded Gabriel Oak 
in other aspects than these. In his face one might notice that 
many of the hues and curves of youth had tarried on to man- 
hood; there even remained in his remoter crannies some relics 
of the boy. His height and breadth would have been suffi- 
cient to make his presence imposing had they been exhibited 
with due consideration. But there is a way some men have, 
rural and urban alike — for which the mind is more responsible 
than flesh and sinew — a way of curtailing their dimensions 
by their manner of showing them; and from a quiet modesty 
that would have become a vestal, which seemed continually to 
impress upon him that he had no great claim on the world's 
room, Oak walked unassumingly, and with a faintly perceptible 
bend, quite distinct from a bowing of the shoulders. This may 
be said to be a defect in an individual if he depends for his 
valuation as a total more upon his appearance than upon his 
capacity to wear well, which Oak did not. He had just reached 
the time of life at which "young" is ceasing to be the prefix of 
"man" in speaking of one. He was at the brightest period of 
masculine life, for his intellect and his emotions were clearly 
separated; he had passed the time during which the influence 
of youth indiscriminately mingles them in the character of 
impulse, and he had not yet arrived at the stage wherein they 
become united again, in the character of prejudice, by the 
influence of a wife and family. In short, he was twenty-eight, 
and a bachelor. 

The field he was in sloped steeply to a ridge called Norcombe 
Hill. Through a spur of this hill ran the highway from Nor- 
combe to Casterbridge, sunk in a deep cutting. Casually 



332 BATHSHEBA AND GABRIEL OAK 

glancing over the hedge, Oak saw coming down the incline before 
him an ornamental spring-wagon, painted yellow and gayly 
marked, drawn by two horses, a wagoner walking alongside 
bearing a whip perpendicularly. The wagon was laden with 
household goods and window-plants, and on the apex of the 
whole sat a woman, young and attractive. 

Gabriel had not beheld the sight for more than half a minute, 
when the vehicle was brought to a standstill just beneath his eyes. 

"The tail-board of the wagon is gone, miss," said the wagoner. 

"Then I heard it fall," said the girl, in a soft though not 
particularly low voice. "I heard a noise I could not account 
for when we were coming up the hill." 

"I'll run back." 

"Do," she answered. 

The sensible horses stood perfectly still, and the wagoner's 
steps sank fainter and fainter in the distance. 

The girl on the summit of the load sat motionless, surrounded 
by tables and chairs with their legs upward, backed by an oak 
settle, and ornamented in front by pots of geraniums, myrtles, 
and cactuses, together with a caged canary — all probably 
from the windows of the house just vacated. There was also 
a cat in a willow basket, from the partly opened lid of which 
she gazed with half-closed eyes, and affectionately surveyed the 
small birds around. 

The handsome girl waited for some time idly in her place, 
and the only sound heard in the stillness was the hopping 
of the canary up and down the perches of its prison. Then 
she looked attentively downward. It was not at the bird, nor 
at the cat; it was at an oblong package tied in paper, and lying 
between them. She turned her head to learn if the wagoner 
were coming. He was not yet in sight; and then her eyes crept 
back to the package, her thoughts seeming to run on what was 
inside of it. At length she drew the article into her lap, and 
untied the paper covering; a small swing looking-glass was 



THOMAS HARDY 333 

disclosed, in which she proceeded to survey herself attentively. 
Then she parted her lips and smiled. 

It was a fine morning, and the sun lighted up to a scarlet 
glow the crimson jacket she wore, and painted a soft luster 
upon her bright face and black hair. The myrtles, geraniums, 
and cactuses packed around her were fresh and green, and at 
such a leafless season they invested the whole concern of horses, 
wagon, furniture, and girl with a peculiar charm of rarity. 
What possessed her to indulge in such a performance in the 
sight of the sparrows, blackbirds, and unperceived farmer, who 
were alone its spectators — whether the smile began as a facti- 
tious one, to test her capacity in that art, nobody knows; it 
ended certainly in a real smile. She blushed at herself, and see- 
ing her reflection blush, blushed the more. 

The change from the customary spot and necessary occasion 
of such an act — from the dressing hour in a bedroom to a 
time of traveling out-of-doors — lent to the idle deed a novelty 
it certainly did not intrinsically possess. The picture was a 
delicate one. Woman's prescriptive infirmity had stalked 
into the sunlight, which had invested it with the freshness of 
an originality. A cynical inference was irrestible by Gabriel 
Oak as he regarded the scene, generous though he fain would have 
been. There was no necessity whatever for her looking in the 
glass. She did not adjust her hat, or pat her hair, or press a 
dimple into shape, or do one thing to signify that any such 
intention had been her motive in taking up the glass. She 
simply observed herself as a fair product of nature in a feminine 
direction, her expression seeming to glide into far-off though 
likely dramas in which men would play a part — vistas of 
probable triumphs — the smiles being of a phase suggesting 
that hearts were imagined as lost and won. Still, this was but 
conjecture, and the whole series of actions were so idly put 
forth as to make it rash to assert that intention had any part in 
them at all. 



334 BATHSHEBA AND GABRIEL OAK 

The wagoner's steps were heard returning. She put the 
glass in the paper, and the whole again into its place. 

When the wagon had passed on, Gabriel withdrew from 
his point of espial, and, descending into the road, followed 
the vehicle to the turnpike-gate at the bottom of the hill, 
where the object of his contemplation now halted for the pay- 
ment of toll. About twenty steps still remained between him 
and the gate, when he heard a dispute. It was a difference 
concerning twopence between the persons with the wagon and 
the man at the toll-bar. 

"Miss'ess' niece is upon the top of the things, and she says 
that's enough that I've offered ye, you great miser, and she 
won't pay any more." These were the wagoner's words. 

" Very well; then mis'ess' niece can't pass," said the turnpike 
keeper, closing the gate. 

Oak looked from one to the other of the disputants, and fell 
into a reverie. There was something in the tone of twopence 
remarkably insignificant. Threepence had a definite value as 
money; it was an appreciable infringement on a day's wages, 
and, as such, a higgling matter; but twopence — "Here," he 
said, stepping forward and handing twopence to the gate- 
keeper; "let the young woman pass." He looked up at her 
then; she heard his words, and looked down. 

Gabriel's features adhered throughout their form so exactly 
to the middle line between the beauty of St. John and the 
ugliness of Judas Iscariot, as represented in a window of the 
church he attended, that not a single lineament could be selected 
and called worthy either of distinction or notoriety. The red- 
jacketed and dark-haired maiden seemed to think so too, for 
she carelessly glanced over him, and told her man to drive on. 
She might have looked her thanks to Gabriel on a minute scale, 
but she did not speak them; more probably she felt none, for 
in gaining her a passage he had lost her her point, and we know 
how women take a favor of that kind. 



THOMAS HARDY 335 

The gate-keeper surveyed the retreating vehicle. 

"That's a handsome maid," he said to Oak. 

"But she has her faults," said Gabriel. 

"True, farmer." 

"And the greatest of them is — well, what it is always." 

"Beating people down; ay, 'tis so." 

"Oh, no." 

"What then?" 

Gabriel, perhaps a little piqued by the comely traveler's 
indifference, glanced back to where he had witnessed her per- 
formance over the hedge, and said, "Vanity." 

[Gabriel, in spite of his judgment on Bathsheba, falls very promptly in love with 
her, and after she saves his life from asphyxiation in a shepherd's hut, he proposes 
marriage to her. She is flattered, but she refuses him. In the next few weeks 
their stations in life change considerably. Bathsheba inherits from an uncle a large 
farm at Weatherbury and takes charge of it herself. Gabriel, through the chance 
of having a young inexperienced sheep-dog, loses his whole flock, and is reduced 
to the necessity of hiring out as a laborer. Accident takes him to Bathsheba's 
farm, and the undercurrent of romance in his nature induces him to accept the 
position there of head shepherd. It is part of Bathsheba's vanity that she should 
wish to have him as her dependent. It turns out again and again, however, that 
she is forced to rely on Gabriel's greater skill and sounder judgment in managing 
farm matters. She usually takes Gabriel's advice, except in regard to her private 
affairs. 

The following incidents occur as the sequel to Bathsheba's growing friendship 
with farmer Boldwood, the most important man of the neighborhood. Bathsheba 
has attracted his attention by a bit of innocent caprice, but she has not the slightest 
idea whether or not she wishes to regard him seriously as a suitor. She is perversely 
curious to know what Gabriel might think of the match. It is obviously a dangerous 
subject of conversation and a good deal follows that neither she nor Gabriel in- 
tended should follow.] 

II 

"Will you turn, Gabriel, and let me hold the shears?" she 
said. "My head is in a whirl, and I can't talk." 

Gabriel turned. Bathsheba then began, with some awk- 
wardness, allowing her thoughts to stray occasionally from 
her story to attend to the shears, which required a little nicety 
in sharpening. 



336 BATHSHEBA AND GABRIEL OAK 

"I wanted to ask you if the men made any observations on 
my going behind the sedge with Mr. Boldwood, yesterday?" 

"Yes, they did," said Gabriel. "You don't hold the shears 
right, miss — I knew you wouldn 't know the way — hold like 
this." 

He relinquished the winch, and inclosing her two hands 
completely in his own (taking each as we sometimes clasp a 
child's hand in teaching him to write), grasped the shears with 
her. "Incline the edge so," he said. 

Hands and shears were inclined to suit the words, and held 
thus for a peculiarly long time by the instructor as he spoke. 

"That will do," exclaimed Bathsheba. "Loose my hands. 
I won't have them held! Turn the winch." 

Gabriel freed her hands quietly, retired to his handle, and the 
grinding went on. 

"Did the men think it odd?" she said again. 

"Odd was not the idea, miss." 

"What did they say?" 

"That Farmer Boldwood 's name and your own were likely 
to be flung over pulpit together before the year was out." 

"I thought so by the look of them! Why, there's nothing 
in it. A more foolish remark was never made, and I want you 
to contradict it; that's what I came for." 

Gabriel looked incredulous and sad, but between his move- 
ments of incredulity, relieved. 

"They must have heard our conversation," she continued. 

"Well, then, Bathsheba!" said Oak, stopping the handle, and 
gazing into her face with astonishment. 

"Miss Everdene, you mean," she said with dignity. 

"I mean this: that if Mr. Boldwood really spoke of marriage, 
I am not going to tell a story and say he didn't, to please you. 
I have already tried to please you too much for my own good." 

Bathsheba regarded him with round-eyed perplexity. She 
did not know whether to pity him for disappointed love of her, 



THOMAS HARDY 337 

or to be angry with him for having got over it — his tone being 
ambiguous. 

"I said I wanted you just to mention that it was not true 
I was going to be married to him," she murmured, with a slight 
decline in her assurance. 

"I can say that to them if you wish, Miss Everdene. And 
I could likewise give an opinion to you on what you have done." 

"I dare say. But I don't want your opinion." 

"I suppose not," said Gabriel bitterly, and going on with his 
turning, his words rising and falling in a regular swell and 
cadence as he stooped or rose with the winch, which directed 
them, according to his position, perpendicularly into the earth, 
or horizontally along the garden, his eyes fixed on a leaf upon 
the ground. 

With Bathsheba a hastened act was a rash act; but as does 
not always happen, time gained was prudence insured. It must 
be added, however, that time was very seldom gained. 

At this period the single opinion in the parish on herself and 
her doings that she valued as sounder than her own was Gabriel 
Oak's. And the outspoken honesty of his character was such 
that on any subject, even that of her love for, or marriage with, 
another man, the same disinterestedness of opinion might be 
calculated on, and be had for the asking. 

Thoroughly convinced of the impossibility of his own suit, 
a high resolve constrained him not to injure that of another. 
This is a lover's most stoical virtue, as the lack of it is a lover's 
most venial sin. 

Knowing he would reply truly, she asked the question, 
painful as she must have known the subject would be. Such 
is the selfishness of some charming women. Perhaps it was 
some excuse for her thus torturing honesty to her own advantage, 
that she had absolutely no other sound judgment within easy 
reach. 

"Well, what is your opinion of my conduct?" she said quietly. 



338 BATHSHEBA AND GABRIEL OAK 

"That it is unworthy of any thoughtful, and meek, and comely 
woman." 

In an instant Bathsheba's face colored with the angry crimson 
of a Danby sunset. But she forbore to utter this feeling, and 
the reticence of her tongue only made the loquacity of her 
face the more noticeable. 

The next thing Gabriel did was to make a mistake. 

"Perhaps you don't like the rudeness of my reprimanding 
you, for I know it is rudeness; but I thought it would do good." 

She instantly replied sarcastically: 

"On the contrary, my opinion of you is so low that I see in 
your abuse the praise of discerning people." 

"I am glad you don't mind it, for I said it honestly, and with 
very serious meaning." 

f< I see. But unfortunately, when you try not to speak in 
jest you are amusing — just as when you wish to avoid serious- 
ness you sometimes say a sensible word." 

It was a hard hit, but Bathsheba had unmistakably lost 
her temper, and on that account Gabriel had never in his life 
kept his own better. He said nothing. She then broke out: 

"I may ask, I suppose, where in particular my unworthiness 
lies? In my not marrying you, perhaps!" 

"Not by any means," said Gabriel quietly. "I have long 
given up thinking of that matter." 

"Or wishing it, I suppose," she said, and it was apparent 
that she expected an unhesitating denial of this supposition. 

Whatever Gabriel felt, he cooly echoed her words: 

"Or wishing it, either." 

A woman may be treated with a bitterness which is sweet 
to her, and with a rudeness which is not offensive. Bathsheba 
would have submitted to an indignant chastisement for her 
levity, had Gabriel protested that he was loving her at the same 
time; the impetuosity of passion unrequited is bearable, even 
if it stings and anathematizes — there is a triumph in the 



THOMAS HARDY 339 

humiliation, and a tenderness in the strife. This was what she 
had been expecting, and what she had not got. To be lectured 
because the lecturer saw her in the cold morning light of open- 
shuttered disillusion was exasperating. He had not finished, 
either. He continued in a more agitated voice: 

" My opinion is (since you ask it) that you are greatly to blame 
for playing pranks upon a man like Mr. Boldwood, merely as 
a pastime. Leading on a man you don't care for is not a praise- 
worthy action. And even, Miss Everdene, if you seriously 
inclined toward him, you might have let him discover it in some 
way of true loving-kindness, and not by sending him a valentine's 
letter." 

Bathsheba laid down the shears. 

" I cannot allow any man to — to criticize my private con- 
duct I" she exclaimed. "Nor will I for a minute. So you'll 
please leave the farm at the end of the week!" 

It may have been a peculiarity — at any rate it was a fact — 
that when Bathsheba was swayed by an emotion of an earthly 
sort her lower lip trembled; when by a refined emotion, her 
upper or heavenward one. Her nether lip quivered now. 

" Very well, so I will," said Gabriel calmly. He had been held 
to her by a beautiful thread which it pained him to spoil by 
breaking, rather than by a chain he could not break. "I should 
be even better pleased to go at once," he added. 

"Go at once then, in Heaven's name!" said she, her eyes 
flashing at his, though never meeting them. "Don't let me see 
your face any more." 

"Very well, Miss Everdene — so it shall be." 

And he took his shears and went away from her in placid 
dignity, as Moses left in the presence of Pharaoh. 

Gabriel Oak had ceased to feed the Weatherbury flock for 
about twenty-four hours, when on Sunday afternoon the elderly 
gentlemen, Joseph Poorgrass, Matthew Moon, Fray, and half a 



34Q 



BATHSHEBA AND GABRIEL OAK 



dozen others came running up to the house of the mistress of 
the Upper Farm. 

"Whatever is the matter, men?" she said, meeting them at 
the door just as she was on the point of coming out on her way 
to church, and ceasing in a moment from the close compression 
of her two red lips, with which she had accompanied the exertion 
of pulling on a tight glove. 

"Sixty!" said Joseph Poorgrass. 

"Seventy!" said Moon. 

"Fifty-nine!" said Susan Tail's husband. 

"Sheep have broke fence," said Fray. 

"And got into a field of young clover," said Tall. 

"Young clover!" said Moon. 

"Clover!" said Joseph Poorgrass. 

"And they be getting blasted," said Henery Fray. 

"That they be," said Joseph. 

"And will all die as dead as nits, if they bain't got out and 
cured!" said Tall. 

Joseph's countenance was drawn into lines and puckers 
by his concern. Fray's forehead was wrinkled both perpen- 
dicularly and crossways, after the pattern of a portcullis, 
expressive of a double despair. Laban Tail's lips were thin, 
and his face was rigid. Matthew's jaws sank, and his eyes 
turned whichever way the strongest muscle happened to pull 
them. 

"Yes," said Joseph, "and I was sitting at home, looking 
for Ephesians, and says I to myself, "Tis nothing but Corin- 
thians and Thessalonians in this danged Testament,' when 
who should come in but Henery there: 'Joseph,' he said, 'the 
sheep have blasted themselves ' " 

With Bathsheba it was a moment when thought was speech 
and speech exclamation. Moreover, she had hardly recovered 
her equanimity since the disturbance which she had suffered 
from Oak's remarks. 



THOMAS HARDY 341 

"That's enough — that's enough — oh, you fools!" she cried, 
throwing the parasol and prayer-book into the passage, and 
running out of doors in the direction signified. "To come to 
me, and not go and get them out directly! Oh, the stupid 
numskulls!" 

Her eyes were at their darkest and brightest now. Bathsheba's 
beauty belonging rather to the redeemed-demonian than to 
the blemished-angelic school, she never looked so well as when 
she was angry — and particularly when the effect was heightened 
by a rather dashing velvet dress, carefully put on before a glass. 

All the ancient men ran in a jumbled throng after her to the 
clover field, Joseph sinking down in the midst when about half- 
way, like an individual withering in a world which got more and 
more unstable. Having once received the stimulus that her 
presence always gave them, they went round among the sheep 
with a will. The majority of the afflicted animals were lying 
down, and could not be stirred. These were bodily lifted out, 
and the others driven into the adjoining field. Here, after 
the lapse of a few minutes several more fell down, and lay 
helpless and livid as the rest. 

Bathsheba, with a sad, bursting heart, looked at these primest 
specimens of her prime flock as they rolled there, 

" Swol'n with wind and the rank mist they drew." 

Many of them foamed at the mouth, their breathing being quick 
and short, while the bodies of all were fearfully distended. 

"Oh, what can I do, what can I do!" said Bathsheba help- 
lessly. "Sheep are such unfortunate animals! there's always 
something happening to them! I never knew a flock pass a 
year without getting into some scrape or other." 

"There's only one way of saving them," said Tall. 

"What way? Tell me quick!" 

"They must be pierced in the side with a thing made on 
purpose." 



342 BATHSHEBA AND GABRIEL OAK 

" Can you do it? Can I!" 

"No, ma'am. We can't, nor you neither. It must be done 
in a particular spot. If ye go to the right or left but an inch, 
you stab the ewe and kill her. Not even a shepherd can do 
it, as a rule." 

"Then they must die," she said, in a resigned tone. 

"Only one man in the neighborhood knows the way," said 
Joseph, now just come up. "He could cure 'em all if he were 
here." 

"Who is he? Let's get him!" 

"Shepherd Oak," said Matthew. "Ah, he's a clever man in 
talents!" 

"Ah, that he is so!" said Joseph Poorgrass. 

"True — he's the man," said Laban Tall. 

"How dare you name that man in my presence!" she said 
excitedly. "I've told you never to allude to him, nor shall you, 
if you stay with me. Ah," she added, brightening, "Farmer 
Boldwood knows!" 

"Oh, no, ma'am," said Matthew. "Two of his store ewes 
got into some vetches t'other day, and were just like these. 
He sent a man on horseback here post haste for Gable, and 
Gable went and saved 'em. Farmer Boldwood hev got the 
thing they do it with. 'Tis a holler pipe, with a sharp pricker 
inside. Isn't it, Joseph?" 

" Ay, a holler pipe," echoed Joseph. " That's what 'tis." 

"Ay, sure — that's the machine," chimed in Henery Fray 
reflectively, with an Oriental indifference to the flight of time. 

"Well," burst out Bathsheba, "don't stand there with your 
ayes and your sures, talking at me. Get somebody to cure the 
sheep, instantly." 

All then stalked off in consternation, to get somebody as 
directed, without any idea of who it was to be. In a minute 
they had vanished through the gate, and she stood alone with 
the dying flock. 



THOMAS HARDY 343 

"Never will I send for him — never!" she faced firmly. 

One of the ewes here contracted its muscles horribly, extended 
itself, and jumped high into the air. The leap was an astonish- 
ing one. The ewe fell heavily and lay still. 

Bathsheba went up to it. The sheep was dead. 

"Oh, what shall I do — what shall I do!" she again exclaimed, 
wringing her hands . "I won ' t send for him . No , I won ' t ! " 

The most vigorous expression of a resolution does not always 
coincide with the greatest vigor of the resolution itself. It is 
often flung out as a sort of prop to support a decaying con- 
viction which, while strong, required no enunciation to prove 
it so. The "no, I won't," of Bathsheba, meant virtually "I 
think I must." 

She followed her assistants through the gate, and lifted her 
hand to one of them. Laban answered to her signal. 

"Where is Oak staying?" 

"Across the valley at Nest Cottage." 

"Jump on the bay mare, and ride across, and say he must 
return instantly — that I say so." 

Tall scrambled off to the field and in two minutes was on 
Poll, the bay, bare-backed, and with only a halter by way of 
rein. He diminished down the hill. 

Bathsheba watched. So did all the rest. Tall cantered 
along the bridle-path through Sixteen Acres, Sheeplands, 
Middle Fields, the Flats, Cappel's Piece, shrank almost to a 
point, crossed the bridge, and ascended from the valley through 
Springmead and Whitepits on the other side. The cottage 
to which Gabriel had retired before taking his final departure 
from the locality was visible as a white spot on the oppo- 
site hill, backed by blue firs. Bathsheba walked up and 
down. The men entered the field and endeavored to ease 
the anguish of the dumb creatures by rubbing them. Nothing 
availed. 

Bathsheba continued walking. The horse was seen descend- 



344 



BATHSHEBA AND GABRIEL OAK 



ing the hill, and the wearisome series had to be repeated in 
reverse order: Whitepits, Springmead, Cappel's Piece, the Flats, 
Middle Field, Sheeplands, Sixteen Acres. 

She hoped Tall had had presence of mind enough to give 
the mare up to Gabriel and return himself on foot. The rider 
neared them. It was Tall. 

"Oh, what folly!" said Bathsheba. 

Gabriel was not visible anywhere. 

"Perhaps he is already gone," she said. 

Tall came into the inclosure, and leaped off, his face tragic 
as Morton's after the battle of Shrewsbury. 

"Well?" said Bathsheba, unwilling to believe that her verbal 
lettre-de-cachet could possibly have miscarried. 

"He says beggars must not be choosers," replied Laban. 

"What!" said the young farmer, opening her eyes and draw- 
ing in her breath for an outburst. Joseph Poorgrass retired 
a few steps behind a hurdle. 

"He says he shall not come unless you request him to come 
civilly and in a proper manner, as becomes any person begging 
a favor." 

"Oh, ho, that's his answer! Where does he get his airs? 
Who am I, then, to be treated like that? Shall I beg to a man 
who has begged to me?" 

Another of the flock sprang into the air, and fell dead. 

The men looked grave, as if they suppressed opinion. 

Bathsheba turned aside, her eyes full of tears. The strait 
she was in through pride and shrewishness could not be dis- 
guised longer: she burst out crying bitterly; they all saw it, 
and she attempted no further concealment. 

"I wouldn't cry about it, miss," said William Smallbury 
compassionately. "Why not ask him softer like? I'm sure 
he'd come then. Gable is a true man in that way." 

Bathsheba checked her grief and wiped her eyes. "Oh 
it is a wicked cruelty to me — it — is — it is!" she murmured. 



THOMAS HARDY 345 

"And he drives me to do what I wouldn't; yes, he does! Tall, 
come indoors." 

After this collapse, not very dignified for the head of an 
establishment, she went into the house, Tall at her heels. Here 
she sat down and hastily scribbled a note between the small 
convulsive sobs of convalescence which follow a fit of crying, 
as a ground-swell follows a storm. The note was none the less 
polite for being written in a hurry. She held it at a distance, 
was about to fold it, then added these words at the bottom: 

11 Do not desert me, Gabriel!" 

She looked a little redder in refolding it, and closed her lips 
as if thereby to suspend till too late the action of conscience in 
examining whether such strategy was justifiable. The note 
was dispatched as the message had been, and Bathsheba waited 
indoors for the result. 

It was an anxious quarter of an hour that intervened between 
the messenger's departure and the sound of the horse's tramp 
again outside. She could not watch this time, but, leaning over 
the old bureau at which she had written the letter, closed her 
eyes, as if to keep out both hope and fear. 

The case, however, was a promising one. Gabriel was not 
angry, he was simply neutral, although her first command had 
been so haughty. Such imperiousness would have damned a 
little less beauty; and, on the other hand, such beauty would 
have redeemed a little less imperiousness. 

She went out when the horse was heard, and looked up. 
A mounted figure passed between her and the sky, and went 
on toward the field of sheep, the rider turning his face in receding. 
Gabriel looked at her. It was a moment when a woman's 
eyes and tongue tell distinctly opposite tales. Bathsheba 
looked full of gratitude, and she said: 

"Oh, Gabriel, how could you serve me so unkindly?" 

Such a tenderly shaped reproach for his previous delay was 



346 BATHSHEBA AND GABRIEL OAK 

the one speech in the language that he could pardon for not 
being commendation of his readiness now. 

Gabriel murmured a confused reply, and hastened on. She 
knew from the look which sentence in her note had brought 
him. Bathsheba followed to the field. 

Gabriel was already among the turgid prostrate forms. He 
had flung off his coat, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and taken 
from his pocket the instrument of salvation. It was a small 
tube or trochar with a lance passing down the inside; and 
Gabriel began to use it with a dexterity that would have graced 
a hospital surgeon. Passing his hand over the sheep's left 
flank, and selecting the proper point, he punctured the skin 
and rumen with the lance, as it stood in the tube; then he 
suddenly withdrew the lance, retaining the tube in its place. 
A current of air rushed up the tube forcibly enough to have 
extinguished a candle held at the orifice. 

It has been said that mere ease after torment is delight 
for a time; and the countenance of these poor creatures ex- 
pressed it now. Forty-nine operations were successfully per- 
formed. Owing to the great hurry necessitated by the far-gone 
state of some of the flock, Gabriel missed his aim in one case, 
and in one only — striking wide of the mark, and inflicting a 
mortal blow at once upon the suffering ewe. Four had died ; 
three recovered without an operation. The total number of 
sheep which had thus strayed and injured themselves so danger- 
ously was fifty-seven. 

When the love-led man had ceased from his labors, Bathsheba 
came and looked him in the face. 

"Gabriel, will you stay on with me?" she said, smiling win- 
ningly, and not troubling to bring her lips quite together again 
at the end, because there was going to be another smile soon. 

"I will," said Gabriel. 

And she smiled on him again. 



XXVI. EUGENIE AND OLD GRANDET 1 
Honore de Balzac 

[Eugenie's cousin, Charles Grandet, has arrived from Paris the evening before 
this scene opens. He has come under unusual circumstances, though he knows 
it not, and he has come to a most unusual house. Charles's father, having failed 
in business, has killed himself and has sent his son to his brother's care. Pere 
Grandet, Eugenie's father, is a wealthy provincial wine dealer and speculator, who 
thinks only of money. He is a miser, with the miser's genuine love of gold for 
gold's sake. He has arranged the family housekeeping on the strictest basis, counts 
the lumps of sugar, weighs out every supply, and holds his pathetic wife, his beauti- 
ful daughter, and his servant Nanon (who alone knows how to manage him) to 
sharp account. Into this extraordinary family, Charles, a graceful young sprig 
of fashion, is suddenly precipitated. Charles has been enjoying the favors of a 
wealthy woman of the Parisian smart set, and regards himself as a thorough 
man of the world. On his arrival he knows nothing of the tragedy — his father's 
failure and death — which hangs over his head. The burden of telling him rests 
on his uncle. The affectionate duty of giving him courage and comfort rests on 
his cousin Eugenie and her mother. Eugenie, who has never talked to a young 
man before in her life, has promptly fallen in love with him, and on the morning 
after his arrival is to be seen most solicitously preparing his breakfast — a feat 
requiring more courage, in the face of her father's certain disapproval, than any- 
thing she has ever done in her life.]] 

I. 

After two hours' thought and care, during which Eugenie 
jumped up twenty times from her work to see if the coffee were 
boiling, or to go and listen to the noise her cousin made in 
dressing, she succeeded in preparing a simple little breakfast, 
very inexpensive, but which, nevertheless, departed alarmingly 
from the inveterate customs of the house. The midday break- 
fast was always taken standing. Each took a slice of bread, 
a little fruit or some butter, and a glass of wine. As Eugenie 
looked at the table drawn up near the fire with an arm-chair 

1 Reprinted from Eugenie Grandet (translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley) 
with the kind permission of Little, Brown and Company. 



348 EUGENIE AND OLD GRANDET 

placed before her cousin's plate, at the two dishes of fruit, 
the egg-cup, the bottle of white wine, the bread, and the sugar 
heaped up in a saucer, she trembled in all her limbs at the mere 
thought of the look her father would give her if he should come 
in at that moment. She glanced often at the clock to see if her 
cousin could breakfast before the master's return. 

"Don't be troubled, Eugenie; if your father comes in, I 
will take it all upon myself," said Madame Grande t. 

Eugenie could not repress a tear. 

"Oh, my good mother!" she cried, "I have never loved you 
enough." 

Charles, who had been tramping about his room for some time, 
singing to himself, now came down. Happily, it was only eleven 
o'clock. The true Parisian! he had put as much dandyism 
into his dress as if he were in the chateau of the noble lady then 
travelling in Scotland. He came into the room with the smiling, 
courteous manner so becoming to youth, which made Eugenie's 
heart beat with mournful joy. He had taken the destruction 
of his castles in Anjou as a joke, and came up to his aunt gayly. 

"Have you slept well, dear aunt? and you, too, my cousin?" 

"Very well, monsieur; did you?" said Madame Grandet. 

"I? perfectly." 

"You must be hungry, cousin," said Eugenie; "will you take 
your seat?" 

"I never breakfast before midday; I never get up till then. 
However, I fared so badly on the journey that I am glad to eat 
something at once. Besides — " here he pulled out the prettiest 
watch Breguet ever made. "Dear me! I am early, it is only 
eleven o'clock!" 

"Early?" said Madame Grandet. 

"Yes; but I wanted to put my things in order. Well, I 
shall be glad to have something to eat, — anything, it doesn't 
matter what, a chicken, a partridge." 

"Holy Virgin!" exclaimed Nanon, overhearing the words. 



HONORE DE BALZAC 349 

"A partridge!" whispered Eugenie to herself; she would 
gladly have given the whole of her little hoard for a partridge. 

"Come and sit down," said his aunt. 

The young dandy let himself drop into an easy-chair, just as 
a pretty woman falls gracefully upon a sofa. Eugenie and her 
mother took ordinary chairs and sat beside him, near the fire. 

"Do you always live here?" said Charles, thinking the room 
uglier by daylight than it had seemed the night before. 

"Always," answered Eugenie, looking at him, "except during 
the vintage. Then we go and help Nanon, and live at the Ab- 
baye des Noyers." 

"Don't you ever take walks?" 

"Sometimes on Sunday after vespers, when the weather is 
fine," said Madame Grandet, "we walk on the bridge, or we 
go and watch the haymakers." 

"Have you a theatre?" 

"Go to the theatre I" exclaimed Madame Grandet, "see a 
play! Why, monsieur, don't you know it is a mortal sin?" 

"See here, monsieur," said Nanon, bringing in the eggs, 
"here are your chickens, — in the shell." 

" Oh ! fresh eggs," said Charles, who, like all people accustomed 
to luxury, had already forgotten about his partridge, "that is 
delicious; now, if you will give me the butter, my good girl." 

"Butter! then you can't have the galette." 

"Nanon, bring the butter," cried Eugenie. 

The young girl watched her cousin as he cut his sippets, with 
as much pleasure as a grisette takes in a melodrama where 
innocence and virtue triumph. Charles, brought up by a 
charming mother, improved and trained by a woman of fashion, 
had the elegant, dainty, foppish movements of a coxcomb. 
The compassionate sympathy and tenderness of a young girl 
possess a power that is actually magnetic; so that Charles, 
finding himself the object of the attentions of his aunt and cousin, 
could not escape the influence of feelings which flowed towards 



350 EUGENIE AND OLD GRANDET 

him, as it were, and inundated him. He gave Eugenie a bright, 
caressing look full of kindness, — a look which seemed itself a 
smile. He perceived, as his eyes lingered upon her, the exquisite 
harmony of features in the pure face, the grace of her innocent 
attitude, the magic clearness of the eyes, where young love 
sparkled and desire shone unconsciously. 

"Ah! my dear cousin, if you were in full dress at the Opera, 
I assure you my aunt's words would come true, — you would 
make the men commit the mortal sin of envy, and the women 
the sin of jealousy." 

The compliment went to Eugenie's heart and set it beating, 
though she did not understand its meaning. 

"Oh! cousin," she said, "you are laughing at a poor little 
country girl." 

"If you knew me, my cousin, you would know that I abhor 
ridicule; it withers the heart and jars upon all my feelings." 
Here he swallowed his buttered sippet very gracefully. "No, 
I really have not enough mind to make fun of others; and 
doubtless it is a great defect. In Paris, when they want to 
disparage a man, they say: 'He has a good heart.' The phrase 
means: 'The poor fellow is as stupid as a rhinoceros.' But as 
I am rich, and known to hit the bull's-eye at thirty paces with 
any kind of pistol, and even in the fields, ridicule respects me." 

"My dear nephew, that bespeaks a good heart." 

"You have a very pretty ring," said Eugenie; "is there any 
harm in asking to see it?" 

Charles held out his hand after loosening the ring, and Eugenie 
blushed as she touched the pink nails of her cousin with the tips 
of her ringers. 

"See, mamma, what beautiful workmanship." 

" My ! there's a lot of gold !" said Nanon, bringing in the coffee. 

"What is that?" exclaimed Charles, laughing, as he pointed 
to an oblong pot of brown earthenware, glazed on the inside, 
and edged with a fringe of ashes, from the bottom of which the 



HONORE DE BALZAC 351 

coffee-grounds were bubbling up and falling in the boiling 
liquid. 

"It is boiled coffee," said Nanon. 

"Ah! my dear aunt, I shall at least leave one beneficent trace 
of my visit here. You are indeed behind the age! I must 
teach you to make good coffee in a Chaptal coffee-pot." 

He tried to explain the process of a Chaptal coffee-pot. 

"Gracious! if there are so many things as all that to do," 
said Nanon, "we may as well give up our lives to it. I shall 
never make coffee that way; I know that! Pray, who is to get 
the fodder for the cow while I make the coffee?" 

"I will make it," said Eugenie. 

"Child!" said Madame Grandet, looking at her daughter. 

The word, recalled to their minds the sorrow that was about 
to fall upon the unfortunate young man; the three women 
were silent, and looked at him with an air of commiseration that 
caught his attention. 

"Is anything the matter, my cousin?" he said. 

"Hush!" said Madame Grandet to Eugenie, who was about 
to answer; "you know, my daughter, that your father charged 
us not to speak to monsieur — " 

"Say Charles," said young Grandet. 

"Ah! you are called Charles? What a beautiful name!" 
cried Eugenie. 

Presentiments of evil are almost always justified. At this 
moment Nanon, Madame Grandet, and Eugenie, who had all 
three been thinking with a shudder of the old man's return, 
heard the knock whose echoes they knew but too well. 

"There's papa!" said Eugenie. 

She removed the saucer filled with sugar, leaving a few pieces 
on the table-cloth; Nanon carried off the egg-cup; Madame 
Grandet sat up like a frightened hare. It was evidently a 
panic, which amazed Charles, who was wholly unable to under- 
stand it. 



352 EUGENIE AND OLD GRANDET 

"Why! what is the matter?" he asked. 

"My father has come," answered Eugenie. 

"Well, what of that?" 

Monsieur Grandet entered the room, threw his keen eye upon 
the table, upon Charles, and saw the whole thing. 

"Ha! ha! so you have been making a feast for your nephew; 
very good, very good, very good indeed!" he said, without 
stuttering. "When the cat's away, the mice will play." 

"Feast!" thought Charles, incapable of suspecting or imagin- 
ing the rules and customs of the household. 

"Give me my glass, Nanon," said the master. 

Eugenie brought the glass. Grandet drew a horn-handled 
knife with a big blade from his breeches' pocket, cut a slice of 
bread, took a small bit of butter, spread it carefully on the bread, 
and ate it standing. At this moment Charles was sweetening 
his coffee. Pere Grandet saw the bits of sugar, looked at his 
wife, who turned pale, and made three steps forward; he leaned 
down to the poor woman's ear and said, 

"Where did you get all that sugar?" 

"Nanon fetched it from Fessard's; there was none." 

It is impossible to picture the profound interest the three 
women took in this mute scene. Nanon had left her kitchen 
and stood looking into the room to see what would happen. 
Charles, having tasted his coffee, found it bitter and glanced 
about for the sugar, which Grandet had already put away. 

"What do you want?" said his uncle. 

"The sugar." 

"Put in more milk," answered the master of the house; 
"your coffee will taste sweeter." 

Eugenie took the saucer which Grandet had put away and 
placed it on the table, looking calmly at her father as she did so. 
Most assuredly, the Parisian woman who held a silken ladder 
with her feeble arms to facilitate the flight of her lover, showed 
no greater courage than Eugenie displayed when she replaced 



HONORE DE BALZAC 353 

the sugar upon the table. The lover rewarded his mistress 
when she proudly showed him her beautiful bruised arm, and 
bathed every swollen vein with tears and kisses till it was cured 
with happiness. Charles, on the other hand, never so much as 
knew the secret of the cruel agitation that shook and bruised 
the heart of his cousin, crushed as it was by the look of the old 
miser. 

"You are not eating your breakfast, wife." 

The poor helot came forward with a piteous look, cut herself 
a piece of bread, and took a pear. Eugenie boldly offered her 
father some grapes, saying, 

"Taste my preserves, papa. My cousin, you will eat some, 
will you not? I went to get these pretty grapes expressly for 
you." 

"If no one stops them, they will pillage Saumur for you, 
nephew. When you have finished, we will go into the garden; 
I have something to tell you which can't be sweetened." 

Eugenie and her mother cast a look on Charles whose meaning 
the young man could not mistake. 

"What is it you mean, uncle? Since the death of my poor 
mother" — at these words his voice softened — "no other 
sorrow can touch me." 

"My nephew, who knows by what afflictions God is pleased 
to try us?" said his aunt. 

"Ta, ta, ta, ta," said Grandet, "there's your nonsense 
beginning. I am sorry to see those white hands of yours, 
nephew;" and he showed the shoulder-of -mutton fists which 
Nature had put at the end of his own arms. "There's a pair 
of hands made to pick up silver pieces. You've been brought 
up to put your feet in the kid out of which we make the purses 
we keep our money in. A bad look-out! Very bad!" 

"What do you mean, uncle? I'll be hanged if I understand 
a single word of what you are saying." 

"Come!" said Grandet. 



354 EUGENIE AND OLD GRANDET 

The miser closed the blade of his knife with a snap, drank 
the last of his wine, and opened the door. 

[After the blow has fallen and Charles has somewhat recovered from his first 
shock of grief, he and Eugenie are drawn together by the inevitable bonds of youth 
and sympathy. With Eugenie it is the one love of a life. She would give anything 
to Charles that he might ask. But Charles, though he loves her as much as he 
could love anybody, is of a shallow, worldly nature, incapable of appreciating her. 
In reality Charles is something like his uncle, the miser. It is Eugenie's fate to 
give her happiness, without return, to these two men. 

Eugenie's father has bestowed upon her every year, for his own pleasure, rare 
gold pieces, Lisbonnines and Genovines, altogether a considerable pile by now, 
worth five thousand nine hundred and fifty-nine francs in actual value, and even 
more to collectors. This yellow hoard Pere Grandet is in the habit of demanding 
a sight of on Eugenie's birthday or on New Year's day. Therefore, for Eugenie 
to give it to Charles requires courage. 

But Eugenie sees a letter, in which Charles, who thinks himself badly in debt, 
tells a friend in Paris to sell all his belongings. She at once offers her purse of 
gold pieces. In return for it Charles gives her a richly jewelled picture of his mother, 
which she treasures in the drawer where she had kept the gold. For several weeks 
now, while Charles remains, he is romantically in love with Eugenie. But it is 
shortly arranged that he shall go away to make his fortune out of France where 
his father's story will not embarrass him. Eugenie is left to fight with her father 
her battle for independence. Her character, given its tonic by past events and 
emancipated by her complete devotion to Charles, is equal to the struggle.] 

II 

Two months went by. This domestic life, once so monotonous, 
was now quickened with the intense interest of a secret that 
bound these women intimately together. For them Charles 
lived and moved beneath the grim gray rafters of the hall. 
Night and morning Eugenie opened the dressing-case and gazed 
at the portrait of her aunt. One Sunday morning her mother 
surprised her as she stood absorbed in rinding her cousin's fea- 
tures in his mother's face. Madame Grandet was then for the 
first time admitted into the terrible secret of the exchange 
made by Charles against her daughter's treasure. 

"You gave him all !" cried the poor mother, terrified. " What 
will you say to your father on New Year's Day when he asks 
to see your gold?" 



HONORE DE BALZAC 355 

Eugenie's eyes grew fixed, and the two women lived through 
mortal terror for more than half the morning. They were so 
troubled in mind that they missed high Mass, and only went to 
the military service. In three days the year 181 9 would come 
to an end. In three days a terrible drama would begin, a bour- 
geois tragedy, without poison, or dagger, or the spilling of blood; 
but — as regards the actors in it — more cruel than all the 
fabled horrors in the family of the Atrides. 

"What will become of us?" said Madame Grandet to her 
daughter, letting her knitting fall upon her knees. 

The poor mother had gone through such anxiety for the past 
two months that the woollen sleeves which she needed for the 
coming winter were not yet finished. This domestic fact, 
insignificant as it seems, bore sad results. For want of those 
sleeves, a chill seized her in the midst of a sweat caused by a 
terrible explosion of anger on the part of her husband. 

"I have been thinking, my poor child, that if you had con- 
fided your secret to me we should have had time to write to 
Monsieur des Grassins in Paris. He might have sent us gold 
pieces like yours; though Grandet knows them all, perhaps — " 

"Where could we have got the money?" 

"I would have pledged my own property. Besides, Monsieur 
des Grassins would have — " 

"It is too late," said Eugenie in a broken, hollow voice. 
"To-morrow morning we must go and wish him a happy New 
Year in his chamber." 

"But, my daughter, why should I not consult the Cruchots?" 

"No, no; it would be delivering me up to them, and putting 
ourselves in their power. Besides, I have chosen my course. 
I have done right. I repent of nothing. God will protect me. 
His will be done! Ah! mother, if you had read his letter, you, 
too, would have thought only of him." 

The next morning, January 1, 1820, the horrible fear to which 
mother and daughter were a prey suggested to their minds a 



356 EUGENIE AND OLD GRANDET 

natural excuse by which to escape the solemn entrance into 
Grandet's chamber. The winter of 1819-1820 was one of the 
coldest of that epoch. The snow encumbered the roofs. 

Madame Grandet called to her husband as soon as she heard 
him stirring in his chamber, and said, 

" Grandet, will you let Nanon light a fire here for me? The 
cold is so sharp that I am freezing under the bedclothes. At my 
age I need some comforts. Besides," she added, after a slight 
pause, "Eugenie shall come and dress here; the poor child might 
get an illness from dressing in her cold room in such weather. 
Then we will go and wish you a happy New Year beside the 
fire in the hall." 

"Ta, ta, ta, ta, what a tongue! a pretty way to begin the new 
year, Ma'ame Grandet! You never talked so much before; 
but you haven't been sopping your bread in wine, I know that." 

There was a moment's silence. 

"Well," resumed the goodman, who no doubt had some 
reason of his own for agreeing to his wife's request, "I'll do 
what you ask, Madame Grandet. You are a good woman, 
and I don't want any harm to happen to you at your time of 
life, — though as a general thing the Bertellieres are as sound 
as a roach. Hein! isn't that so?" he added after a pause. 
"Well, I forgive them; we got their property in the end." 
And he coughed. 

"You are very gay this morning, monsieur," said the poor 
woman gravely. 

"I'm always gay, — 

" ' Gai, gai, gai, le tonnelier, 
Raccommodez votre cuvier! ' " 

he answered, entering his wife's room fully dressed. "Yes, 
on my word, it is cold enough to freeze you solid. We shall 
have a fine breakfast, wife. Des Grassins has sent me a pate-de- 
foie-gras truffled! I am going now to get it at the coach-office. 



HONORS DE BALZAC 357 

There'll be a double napoleon for Eugenie in the package," 
he whispered in Madame Grandet's ear. "I have no gold left, 
wife. I had a few stray pieces — I don 't mind telling you that 
— but I had to let them go in business." 

Then, by way of celebrating the new year, he kissed her on 
the forehead. 

"Eugenie," cried the mother, when Grandet was fairly gone, 
"I don't know which side of the bed your father got out of, but 
he is good-tempered this morning. Perhaps we shall come out 
safe after all." 

"What's happened to the master?" said Nanon, entering her 
mistress's room to light the fire. "First place, he said, 'Good- 
morning; happy New Year, you big fool! Go and light my 
wife's fire, she's cold;' and then, didn't I feel silly when he held 
out his hand and gave me a six-franc piece, which isn't worn 
one bit? Just look at it, madame! Oh, the kind man! He is 
a good man, that's a fact. There are some people who the 
older they get the harder they grow; but he, — why he's 
getting soft and improving with time, like your ratafia! He is 
a good, good man — " 

The secret of Grandet's joy lay in the complete success of his 
speculation. [One of his speculations in government securities.]] 

The family did not breakfast that day until ten o'clock. 

"Your father will not ask to see your gold downstairs," 
said Madame Grandet as they got back from Mass. "You 
must pretend to be very chilly. We may have time to replace 
the treasure before your fete-day." 

Grandet came down the staircase thinking of his splendid 
speculation in government securities, and wondering how he 
could metamorphose his Parisian silver into solid gold; he was 
making up his mind to invest in this way everything he could 
lay hands on until the Funds should reach a par value. Fatal 
re very for Eugenie! As soon as he came in, the two women 
wished him a happy New Year, — his daughter by putting her 



358 EUGENIE AND OLD GRANDET 

arms round his neck and caressing him; Madame Grandet 
gravely and with dignity. 

"Ha! ha! my child," he said, kissing his daughter on both 
cheeks. " I work for you, don't you see? I think of your hap- 
piness. Must have money to be happy. Without money 
there's not a particle of happiness. Here! there's a new napo- 
leon for you. I sent to Paris for it. On my word of honor, 
it's all the gold I have; you are the only one that has got any 
gold. I want to see your gold, little one." 

"Oh! it is too cold; let us have breakfast," answered Eugenie. 

"Well, after breakfast, then; it will help the digestion. 
That fat des Grassins sent me the pate. Eat as much as you 
like, my children, it cost nothing. Des Grassins is getting along 
very well. I am satisfied with him. The old fish is doing 
Charles a good service, and gratis too. He is making a very good 
settlement of that poor deceased Grandet's business. Hoo! 
hoo!" he muttered, with his mouth full, after a pause, "how 
good it is! Eat some, wife; that will feed you for at least two 
days." 

"I am not hungry. I am very poorly; you know that." 

"Ah, bah! you can stuff yourself as full as you please without 
danger, you're a Bertelliere; they are all hearty. You are 
a bit yellow, that's true; but I like yellow, myself." 

The expectation of ignominous and public death is perhaps less 
horrible to a condemned criminal than the anticipation of what 
was coming after breakfast to Madame Grandet and Eugenie. 
The more gleefully the old man talked and ate, the more their 
hearts shrank within them. The daughter, however, had an 
inward prop at this crisis, — she gathered strength through love. 

"For him! for him!" she cried within her, "I would die a 
thousand deaths." 

At the thought, she shot a glance at her mother which flamed 
with courage. 

"Clear away," said Grandet to Nanon when, about eleven 



HONORS DE BALZAC 359 

o'clock, breakfast was over, "but leave the table. We can 
spread your little treasure upon it," he said, looking at Eugenie. 
" Little? Faith! no; it isn't little. You possess, in actual 
value, five thousand nine hundred and fifty-nine francs and the 
forty I gave you just now. That makes six thousand francs, 
less one. Well, now see here, little one ! I '11 give you that one 
franc to make up the round number. Hey! what are you 
listening for, Nanon? Mind your own business; go and do 
your work. ' ' 

Nanon disappeared. 

"Now listen, Eugenie: you must give me back your gold. 
You won't refuse your father, my little girl, hein?" 

The two women were dumb. 

"I have no gold myself. I had some, but it is all gone. I'll 
give you in return six thousand francs in livres, and you are to 
put them just where I tell you. You mustn't think anything 
more about your 'dozen.' When I marry you (which will be 
soon) I shall get you a husband who can give you the finest 
' dozen' ever seen in the provinces. Now attend to me, little 
girl. There's a fine chance for you; you can put your six 
thousand francs into government funds, and you will receive 
every six months nearly two hundred francs interest, without 
taxes, or repairs, or frost, or hail, or floods, or anything else to 
swallow up the money. Perhaps you don't like to part with 
your gold, hey, my girl? Never mind, bring it to me all the same. 
I '11 get you some more like it, — like those Dutch coins and 
the portugaises, the rupees of Mogul, and the genovines, — I '11 
give you some more on your fete-days, and in three years you '11 
have got back half your little treasure. What's that you say? 
Look up, now. Come, go and get it, the precious metal. You 
ought to kiss me on the eyelids for telling you the secrets and 
the mysteries of the life and death of money. Yes, silver and 
gold live and swarm like men; they come, and go, and sweat, 
and multiply — " 



360 EUGENIE AND OLD GRANDET 

Eugenie rose; but after making a few steps towards the door 
she turned abruptly, looked her father in the face, and said, 

"I have not got my gold." 

"You have not got your gold!" cried Grandet, starting up 
erect, like a horse that hears a cannon fired beside him. 

"No, I have not got it." 

"You are mistaken, Eugenie." 

"No." 

"By the shears of my father!" 

Whenever the old man swore that oath the rafters trembled. 

"Holy Virgin! Madame is turning pale," cried Nanon. 

"Grandet, your anger will kill me," said the poor mother. 

"Ta, ta, ta, ta! nonsense; you never die in your family! 
Eugenie, what have you done with your gold?" he cried, rushing 
upon her. 

"Monsieur," said the daughter, falling at Madame Grandet's 
knees, "my mother is ill. Look at her; do not kill her." 

Grandet was frightened by the pallor which overspread his 
wife's face, usually so yellow. 

"Nanon, help me to bed," said the poor woman in a feeble 
voice; "I am dying — " 

Nanon gave her mistress an arm, Eugenie gave her another; 
but it was only with infinite difficulty that they could get her 
upstairs, she fell with exhaustion at every step. Grandet 
remained alone. However, in a few moments he went up six 
or eight stairs and called out, — 

"Eugenie, when your mother is in bed, come down." 

"Yes, father." 

She soon came, after reassuring her mother. 

"My daughter," said Grandet, "you will now tell me what 
you have done with your gold." 

"My father, if you make me presents of which I am not the 
sole mistress, take them back," she answered coldly, picking 
up the napoleon from the chimney-piece and offering it to him. 



HONORfi DE BALZAC 361 

Grandet seized the coin and slipped it into his breeches pocket. 

"I shall certainly never give you anything again. Not so 
much as that!" he said, clicking his thumb-nail against a front 
tooth. "Do you dare to despise your father? Have you no 
confidence in him? Don't you know what a father is? If 
he is nothing for you, he is nothing at all. Where is your gold?" 

"Father, I love and respect you, in spite of your anger; but 
I humbly ask you to remember that I am twenty-three years 
old. You have told me often that I have attained my majority, 
and I do not forget it. I have used my money as I chose to use 
it, and you may be sure that it was put to a good use — " 

"What use?" 

"That is an inviolable secret," she answered. "Have you 
no secrets?" 

"I am the head of the family; I have my own affairs." 

"And this is mine." 

"It must be something bad if you can't tell it to your father, 
Mademoiselle Grandet." 

"It is good, and I cannot tell it to my father." 

"At least you can tell me when you parted with your gold?" 

Eugenie made a negative motion with her head. 

"You had it on your birthday, hein?" 

She grew as crafty through love as her father was through 
avarice, and reiterated the negative sign. 

"Was there ever such obstinacy! It's a theft," cried Grandet, 
his voice going up in a crescendo which gradually echoed through 
the house. "What! here, in my own home, under my very 
eyes, somebody has taken your gold ! — the only gold we have ! 
— and I'm not to know who has got it! Gold is a precious 
thing. Virtuous girls go wrong sometimes, and give — I don't 
know what; they do it among the great people, and even 
among the bourgeoisie. But give their gold! — for you have 
given it to some one, hein? — " 

Eugenie was silent and impassive. 



362 EUGENIE AND OLD GRANDET 

"Was there ever such a daughter? Is it possible that I am 
your father? If you have invested it anywhere, you must have 
a receipt — " 

" Was I free — yes or no — to do what I would with my own? 
Was it not mine?" 

"You are a child." 

"Of age." 

Dumbfounded by his daughter's logic, Grandet turned pale 
and stamped and swore. When at last he found words, he cried: 
"Serpent I Cursed girl! Ah, deceitful creature! You know 
I love you, and you take advantage of it. She 'd cut her father's 
throat! Good God! you've given our fortune to that ne'er- 
do-well, — that dandy with morocco boots ! By the shears 
of my father! I can't disinherit you, but I curse you, — you 
and your cousin and your children! Nothing good will come 
of it! Do you hear! If it was to Charles — but, no; it's 
impossible. What! has that wretched fellow robbed me? — " 

He looked at his daughter, who continued cold and silent. 

"She won't stir; she won't flinch! She's more Grandet than 
I'm Grandet! Ha! you have not given your gold for nothing? 
Come, speak the truth!" 

Eugenie looked at her father with a sarcastic expression 
that stung him. 

"Eugenie, you are here, in my house, — in your father's 
house. If you wish to stay here, you must submit yourself to 
me. The priests tell you to obey me." Eugenie bowed her 
head. "You affront me in all I hold most dear. I will not see 
you again till you submit. Go to your chamber. You will 
stay there till I give you permission to leave it. Nanon will 
bring you bread and water. You hear me — go!" 



XXVII. FRANfOIS VILLON 1 

Robert Louis Stevenson 

[The first story of importance which Stevenson wrote was A Lodging for the 
Night, a tale about the poet and house-breaker, Francois Villon. Just before he 
wrote this story — perhaps his best — he had been studying the lif e and writings 
of Villon and had written an essay on the poet's character. We therefore print 
here enough of the essay to show how Stevenson's serious treatment of an idea in 
biography is the basis for his still more thorough and serious treatment of an idea 
in fiction. The essay is composed of a number of characterizing situations. The 
story is a logically imagined marking incident.'} 

Perhaps one of the most curious revolutions in literary history 
is the sudden bull's-eye light cast by M. Longnon on the obscure 
existence of Francois Villon. His book is not remarkable merely 
as a chapter of biography exhumed after four centuries. To 
readers of the poet it will recall, with a flavor of satire, that 
characteristic passage in which he bequeaths his spectacles — 
with a humorous reservation of the case — to the hospital for 
blind paupers known as the Fifteen-Score. Thus equipped, let 
the blind paupers go and separate the good from the bad in the 
cemetery of the Innocents! For his own part the poet can see 
no distinction. Much have the dead people made of their 
advantages. What does it matter now that they have lain in 
state beds and nourished portly bodies upon cakes and cream! 
Here they all lie, to be trodden in the mud; the large estate and 
the small, sounding virtue and adroit or powerful vice, in very 
much the same condition; and a bishop not to be distinguished 
from a lamplighter with even the strongest spectacles. 

["Such," says Stevenson, "was Villon's cynical philosophy." He shows how 
Villon, poor, dependent, well enough educated, yet lacking any sense of obligation to 

1 Reprinted from Studies of Men and Books. 



364 FRANCOIS VILLON 

his benefactors, was early initiated into the ways of the crooks of the student quarter 
in Paris. So the poet begins to lead that life of thievery that he celebrates in the 
ballads.] 1 

And yet it is not as a thief, but as a homicide, that he makes 
his first appearance before angry justice. One June 5, 1455, 
when he was about twenty-four, and had been Master of Arts 
for a matter of three years, we behold him for the first time 
quite definitely. Angry justice had, as it were, photographed 
him in the act of his homicide; and M. Longnon, rummaging 
among old deeds, has turned up the negative and printed it 
off for our instruction. Villon had been supping — copiously 
we may believe — and sat on a stone bench in front of the Church 
of St. Benoit, in company with a priest called Gilles and a woman 
of the name of Isabeau. It was nine o'clock, a mighty late 
hour for the period, and evidently a fine summer's night. Mas- 
ter Francois carried a mantle, like a prudent man, to keep him 
from the dews (serain), and had a sword below it dangling from 
his girdle. So these three dallied in front of St. Benoit, taking 
their pleasure (pour soy esbatre). Suddenly there arrived 
upon the scene a priest, Philippe Chermoye or Sermaise, also 
with a sword and cloak, and accompanied by one Master Jehan 
le Mardi. Sermaise, according to Villon's account, which is 
all we have to go upon, came up blustering and denying God; 
as Villon rose to make room for him upon the bench, thrust him 
rudely back into his place; and finally drew his sword and 
cut open his lower lip, by what I should imagine was a very 
clumsy stroke. Up to this point, Villon professes to have been 
a model of courtesy, even of feebleness; and the brawl, in his 
version, reads like the fable of the wolf and the lamb. But now 
the lamb was roused; he drew his sword, stabbed Sermaise in 
the groin, knocked him on the head with a big stone and then, 
leaving him to his fate, went away to have his own lip doctored 

1 These passages from Stevenson exist in much the same form in Robert Louis 
Stevenson: How to Know Him, by Richard Ashley Rice. Bobbs-Merrill Co. 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 365 

by a barber of the name of Fouquet. In one version, he says 
that Gilles, Isabeau, and Le Mardi ran away at the first high 
words, and that he and Sermaise had it out alone; in another, 
Le Mardi is represented as returning and wresting Villon's 
sword from him: the reader may please himself. Sermaise 
was picked up, lay all that night in the prison of St. Benoit, 
where he was examined by an official of the Chatelet and ex- 
pressly pardoned Villon, and died on the following Saturday 
in the Hotel Dieu. 

This, as I have said, was in June. Not before January of the 
next year could Villon extract a pardon from the king; but 
while his hand was in, he got two. One is for "Francois des 
Loges, alias (autrement dit) de Villon;" and the other runs in 
the name of Francois de Montcorvier. Nay, it appears there 
was a further complication; for in the narrative of the first of 
these documents, it is mentioned that he passed himself off upon 
Fouquet, the barber-surgeon, as one Michel Mouton. M. 
Longnon has a theory that this unhappy accident with Sermaise 
was the cause of Villon's subsequent irregularities; and that up 
to that moment he had been the pink of good behavior. But 
the matter has to my eyes a more dubious air. A pardon neces- 
sary for Des Loges and another for Montcorbier? and these two 
the same person? and one or both of them known by the alias 
of Villon, however honestly come by? and lastly, in the heat of 
the moment, a fourth name thrown out with an assured coun- 
tenance? A ship is not to be trusted that sails under so many 
colors. This is not the simple bearing of innocence. No — the 
young master was already treading crooked paths; already, he 
would start and blench at a hand upon his shoulder, with the 
look we know so well in the face of Hogarth's Idle Apprentice; 
already in the blue devils, he would see Henry Cousin, the ex- 
ecutor of high justice, going in dolorous procession toward 
Montfaucon, and hear the wind and the birds crying around 
Paris gibbet. 



366 FRANCIS VILLON 

[This is a sample exploit; and here is another which began at a memorable sup- 
per at the Mule Tavern, in front of the Church of St. Mathurin. One of Villon's 
crew, Tabary, had ordered the supper. Others joined them at the feast.] 

This supper party was to be his first introduction to De 
Cayeux and Petit-Jehan, which was probably a matter of some 
concern to the poor man's muddy wits; in the sequel, at least, 
he speaks of both with an undisguised respect, based on profes- 
sional inferiority in the matter of picklocks. Dom Nicolas, 
a Picardy monk, was the fifth and last at table. When supper 
had been despatched and fairly washed down, we may suppose, 
with white Baigneux or red Beaune, which were favorite wines 
among the fellowship, Tabary .was solemnly sworn over to se- 
crecy on the night's performances ; and the party left the Mule 
and proceeded to an unoccupied house belonging to Robert de 
Saint-Simon. This, over a low wall, they entered without 
difficulty. All but Tabary took off their upper garments; 
a ladder was found and applied to the high wall which separated 
Saint-Simon's house from the court of the College of Navarre; 
the four fellows in their shirt-sleeves (as we might say) clambered 
over in a twinkling: and Master Guy Tabary remained alone 
beside the overcoats. From the court the burglars made their 
way into the vestry of the chapel, where they found a large chest, 
strengthened with iron bands and closed with four locks. One 
of these locks they picked, and then, by levering up the corner, 
forced the other three. Inside was a small coffer, of walnut 
wood, also barred with iron, but fastened with only three locks, 
which were all comfortably picked by the way of the keyhole. 
In the walnut coffer — a joyous sight by our thieves' lantern — 
were five hundred crowns of gold. There was some talk of 
opening the aumries, where, if they had only known, a booty 
eight or nine times greater lay ready to their hand, but one of 
the party (I have a humorous suspicion it was Dom Nicolas, 
the Picardy monk) hurried them away. It was ten o'clock 
when they mounted the ladder; it was about midnight before 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 367 

Tabary beheld them coming back. To him they gave ten crowns 
and promised a share of a two-crown dinner on the morrow; 
whereat we may suppose his mouth watered. In the course 
of time, he got wind of the real amount of their booty and 
understood how scurvily he had been used; but he seems to 
have borne no malice. How could he, against such superb 
operators as Petit- Jehan and De Cayeux; or a person like 
Villon, who could have made a new improper romance out of 
his own head, instead of merely copying an old one with mechan- 
ical right hand. 

[Such affairs are all one knows of Villon's history. His temperament is illus- 
trated by them and his poems, especially by the Large Testament, "that admirable 
and despicable performance." The date of this work "is the last date in the poet's 
biography," Stevenson remarks. "How or when he died, whether decently in bed 
or trussed up to a gallows, remains a riddle for foolhardy commentators. "J 



XXVIII. A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 1 

Robert Louis Stevenson 

E"Any one who may have tried it will tell us that to make a successful short 
story out of the same materials with which he has constructed a critical essay, to 
turn suddenly from appreciator into creator, is a very rare gift. Certainly it 
implies an intimacy with the subject, a rapid and thorough absorption of detail, 
that most students of literature and biography never even dream of striving for. 
Yet all that this comes to, if viewed from a slightly different angle, is a really sym- 
pathetic comprehension of a man. It would be a thesis which I should like to 
defend that anybody who could write an essay as thorough as Stevenson's, could 
also write a story as vivid as A Lodging for the Night. My ground of argument 
would be that the story and the essay have their essential points in common; a 
personal realization of Villon's humor, a perfectly suggested local background, and 
the taste for the sort of moral frame which best suits the portrait. The essay 
begins with a whimsical illustration of Villon's philosophy of life and death. The 
story begins with an illustration of the actual effect of death on Villon's imagina- 
tion while he struggles to let his whimsical philosophy reassert itself. The essay 
proceeds to detail a set of his escapades and to draw the moral. The story selects 
one typical escapade, embellishes it with moralized dialogue to suit, and then, 
like the essay, thrusts the hero forth into the uncertainty of his vagabond future." 
— Quoted from Robert Louis Stevenson: How to Know Him, by Richard Ashley 
Rice.] 

It was late in November, 1456. The snow fell over Paris 
with rigorous, relentless persistence; sometimes the wind made 
a sally and scattered it in flying vortices; sometimes there was 
a lull, and flake after flake descended out of the black night 
air, silent, circuitous, interminable. To poor people, looking 
up under moist eyebrows, it seemed a wonder where it all 
came from. Master Francis Villon had propounded an alter- 
native that afternoon at a tavern window: was it only Pagan 
Jupiter plucking geese upon Olympus? or were the holy angels 
moulting? He was only a poor Master of Arts, he went on; 
and as the question somewhat touched upon divinity, he durst 
not venture to conclude. A silly old priest from Montargis, 

1 Reprinted from New Arabian Nights. 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 369 

who was among the company, treated the young rascal to a 
bottle of wine in honor of the jest and grimaces with which it 
was accompanied, and swore on his own white beard that he had 
been just such another irreverent dog when he was Villon's age. 

The air was raw and pointed, but not far below freezing; 
and the flakes were large, damp, and adhesive. The whole city 
was sheeted up. An army might have marched from end to 
end and not a footfall given the alarm. If there were any 
belated birds in heaven, they saw the island like a large white 
patch, and the bridges like slim white spars, on the black ground 
of the river. High up overhead the snow settled among the 
tracery of the cathedral towers. Many a niche was drifted full; 
many a statue wore a long white bonnet on its grotesque or 
sainted head. The gargoyles had been transformed into great 
false noses, drooping towards the point. The crockets were 
like upright pillows, swollen on one side. In the intervals 
of the wind, there was a dull sound of dripping about the pre- 
cincts of the church. 

The cemetery of St. John had taken its own share of the 
snow. All the graves were decently covered; tall white house- 
tops stood around in grave array; worthy burghers were long 
ago in bed, be-night-capped like their domiciles; there was no 
light in all the neighborhood but a little peep from a lamp 
that hung swinging in the church choir, and tossed the shadows 
to and fro in time to its oscillations. The clock was hard 
on ten when the patrol went by with halberds and a lantern, 
beating their hands; and they saw nothing suspicious about the 
cemetery of St. John. 

Yet there was a small house, backed up against the cemetery 
wall, which was still awake, and awake to evil purpose, in that 
snoring district. There was not much to betray it from without; 
only a stream of warm vapor from the chimney-top, a patch 
where the snow melted on the roof, and a few half-obliterated 
footprints at the door. But within, behind the shuttered 



37° A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 

windows, Master Francis Villon the poet, and some of the thiev- 
ish crew with whom he consorted were keeping the night alive 
and passing round the bottle. 

A great pile of living embers diffused a strong and ruddy 
glow from the arched chimney. Before this straddled Dom 
Nicolas, the Picardy monk, with his skirts picked up and his 
fat legs bared to the comfortable warmth. His dilated shadow 
cut the room in half; and the firelight only escaped on either side 
of his broad person, and in a little pool between his outspread 
feet. His face had the beery, bruised appearance of the con- 
tinual drinker's; it was covered with a network of congested 
veins, purple in ordinary circumstances, but now pale violet, 
for even with his back to the fire the cold pinched him on the 
other side. His cowl had half fallen back, and made a strange 
excrescence on either side of his bull neck. So he straddled, 
grumbling, and cut the room in half with the shadow of his 
portly frame. 

On the right, Villon and Guy Tabary were huddled together 
over a scrap of parchment; Villon making a ballade which he 
was to call the Ballade of Roast Fish, and Tabary spluttering 
admiration at his shoulder. The poet was a rag of a man, 
dark, little, and lean, with hollow cheeks and thin black locks. 
He carried his four-and-twenty years with feverish animation. 
Greed had made folds about his eyes, evil smiles had puckered 
his mouth. The wolf and pig struggled together in his face. 
It was an eloquent, sharp, ugly, earthly countenance. His 
hands were small and prehensile, with fingers knotted like a 
cord; and they were continually flickering in front of him in 
violent and expressive pantomime. As for Tabary, a broad, 
complacent, admiring imbecility breathed from his squash 
nose and slobbering lips: he had become a thief, just as he might 
have become the most decent of burgesses, by the imperious 
chance that rules the lives of human geese and human donkeys. 

At the monk's other hand, Montigny and Thevenin Pensete 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 371 

played a game of chance. About the first there clung some 
flavor of good birth and training, as about a fallen angel; some- 
thing long, lithe, and courtly in the person; something aquiline 
and darkling in the face. Thevenin, poor soul, was in great 
feather: he had done a good stroke of knavery that afternoon 
in the Faubourg St. Jacques, and all night he had been gaining 
from Montigny. A flat smile illuminated his face; his bald 
head shone rosily in a garland of red curls; his little protuberant 
stomach shook with silent chucklings as he swept in his gains. 

" Doubles or quits?" said Thevenin. 

Montigny nodded grimly. 

" Some may prefer to dine in state" wrote Villon, "On bread 
and cheese on silver plate. Or, or — help me out, Guido!" 

Tabary giggled. 

"Or parsley on a golden dish," scribbled the poet. 

The wind was freshening without; it drove the snow before 
it, and sometimes raised its voice in a victorious whoop, and made 
sepulchral grumblings in the chimney. The cold was growing 
sharper as the night went on. Villon, protruding his lips, 
imitated the gust with something between a whistle and a groan. 
It was an eerie, uncomfortable talent of the poet's, much de- 
tested by the Picardy monk. 

" Can't you hear it rattle in the gibbet?" said Villon. "They 
are all dancing the devil's jig on nothing, up there. You may 
dance, my gallants, you'll be none the warmer! Whew! what 
a gust! Down went somebody just now! A medlar the fewer 
on the three-legged medlar- tree ! — I say, Dom Nicolas, it '11 
be cold to-night on the St. Denis Road?" he asked. 

Dom Nicolas winked both his big eyes, and seemed to choke 
upon his Adam's apple. Montfaucon, the great grisly Paris 
gibbet, stood hard by the St. Denis Road, and the pleasantry 
touched him on the raw. As for Tabary, he laughed immoder- 
ately over the medlars; he had never heard anything more 
light-hearted; and he held his sides and crowed. Villon fetched 



372 A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 

him a fillip on the nose, which turned his mirth into an attack 
of coughing. 

"Oh, stop that row," said Villon, "and think of rhymes to 
'fish.'" 

"Doubles or quits," said Montigny doggedly. 

"With all my heart," quoth Thevenin. 

"Is there any more in that bottle?" asked the monk. 

"Open another," said Villon. "How do you ever hope to 
fill that big hogshead, your body, with little things like bottles? 
And how do you expect to get to heaven? How many angels, 
do you fancy, can be spared to carry up a single monk from 
Picardy? Or do you think yourself another Elias — and they'll 
send the coach for you?" 

"Hotninibus impossibile" replied the monk as he filled his 
glass. 

Tabary was in ecstasies. 

Villon filliped his nose again. 

"Laugh at my jokes, if you like," he said. 

"It was very good," objected Tabary. 

Villon made a face at him. "Think of rhymes to 'fish,'" 
he said. "What have you to do with Latin? You'll wish you 
knew none of it at the great assizes, when the devil calls for 
Guido Tabary, clericus — the devil with the hump-back and red- 
hot finger-nails. Talking of the devil," he added in a whisper, 
"look at Montigny!" 

All three peered covertly at the gamester. He did not seem 
to be enjoying his luck. His mouth was a little to a side; 
one nostril nearly shut, and the other much inflated. The 
black dog was on his back, as people say, in terrifying 
nursery metaphor; and he breathed hard under the gruesome 
burden. 

"He looks as if he could knife him," whispered Tabary, with 
round eyes. 

The monk shuddered, and turned his face and spread his open 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 373 

hands to the red embers. It was the cold that thus affected 
Dom Nicolas, and not any excess of moral sensibility. 

"Come, now," said Villon — "about this ballade. How does 
it run so far?" And beating time with his hand, he read it 
aloud to Tabary. 

They were interrupted at the fourth rhyme by a brief and 
fatal movement among the gamesters. The round was com- 
pleted, and Thevenin was just opening his mouth to claim 
another victory, when Montigny leaped up, swift as an adder, 
and stabbed him to the heart. The blow took effect before he 
had time to utter a cry, before he had time to move. A tremor 
or two convulsed his frame; his hands opened and shut, his 
heels rattled on the floor; then his head rolled backward over 
one shoulder with the eyes wide open, and Thevenin Pensete's 
spirit had returned to Him who made it. 

Every one sprang to his feet; but the business was over in 
two twos. The four living fellows looked at each other in 
rather a ghastly fashion; the dead man contemplating a corner 
of the roof with a singular and ugly leer. 

"My God!" said Tabary; and he began to pray in Latin. 

Villon broke out into hysterical laughter. He came a step 
forward and ducked a ridiculous bow at Thevenin, and laughed 
still louder. Then he sat down suddenly, all of a heap, upon 
a stool, and continued laughing bitterly as though he would 
shake himself to pieces. 

Montigny recovered his composure first. 

"Let's see what he has about him," he remarked, and he 
picked the dead man's pockets with a practiced hand, and 
divided the money into four equal portions on the table. "There's 
for you," he said. 

The monk received his share with a deep sigh and a single 
stealthy glance at the dead Thevenin, who was beginning to sink 
into himself and topple sideways off the chair. 

"We're all in for it," cried Villon, swallowing his mirth. 



374 A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 

"It's a hanging job for every man jack of us that's here — not 
to speak of those who aren't." He made a shocking gesture in 
the air with his raised right hand, and put out his tongue and 
threw his head on one side, so as to counterfeit the appearance 
of one who has been hanged. Then he pocketed his share 
of the spoil, and executed a shuffle with his feet as if to restore 
the circulation. 

Tabary was the last to help himself; he made a dash at the 
money and retired to the other end of the apartment. 

Montigny stuck Thevenin upright in the chair, and drew out 
the dagger, which was followed by a jet of blood. 

"You fellows had better be moving," he said, as he wiped the 
blade on his victim's doublet. 

"I think we had," returned Villon, with a gulp. "Damn his 
fat head!" he broke out. "It sticks in my throat like phlegm. 
What right has a man to have red hair when he is dead?" And 
he fell all of a heap again upon the stool, and fairly covered his 
face with his hands. 

Montigny and Dom Nicolas laughed aloud, even Tabary 
feebly chiming in. 

" Cry baby," said the monk. 

"I always said he was a woman," added Montigny, with a 
sneer. "Sit up, can't you?" he went on, giving another shake 
to the murdered body. "Tread out that fire, Nick!" 

But Nick was better employed; he was quietly taking Villon's 
purse, as the poet sat, limp and trembling, on the stool where he 
had been making a ballade not three minutes before. Montigny 
and Tabary dumbly demanded a share of the booty, which the 
monk silently promised as he passed the little bag into the bosom 
of his gown. In many ways an artistic nature unfits a man for 
practical existence. 

No sooner had the theft been accomplished than Villon shook 
himself, jumped to his feet, and began helping to scatter and 
extinguish the embers. Meanwhile Montigny opened the door 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 375 

and cautiously peered into the street. The coast was clear; 
there was no meddlesome patrol in sight. Still it was judged 
wiser to slip out severally; and as Villon was himself in a hurry 
to escape from the neighborhood of the dead Thevenin, and 
the rest were in a still greater hurry to get rid of him before he 
should discover the loss of his money, he was the first by general 
consent to issue forth into the street. 

The wind had triumphed and swept all the clouds from heaven. 
Only a few vapors, as thin as moonlight, fleeted rapidly across 
the stars. It was bitter cold; and by a common optical effect, 
things seemed almost more definite than in the broadest daylight. 
The sleeping city was absolutely still; a company of white hoods, 
a field full of little alps, below the twinkling stars. Villon cursed 
his fortune. Would it were still snowing! Now, wherever he 
went, he left an indelible trail behind him on the glittering 
streets; wherever he went he was still tethered to the house by 
the cemetery of St. John; wherever he went he must weave, 
with his own plodding feet, the rope that bound him to the crime 
and would bind him to the gallows. The leer of the dead man 
came back to him with a new significance. He snapped his 
fingers as if to pluck up his own spirits and choosing a street at 
random, stepped boldly forward in the snow. 

Two things preoccupied him as he went: the aspect of the 
gallows at Montfaucon in this bright, windy phase of the night's 
existence, for one; and for another, the look of the dead man with 
his bald head and garland of red curls. Both struck cold upon 
his heart, and he kept quickening his pace as if he could escape 
from unpleasant thoughts by mere fleetness of foot. Sometimes 
he looked back over his shoulder with a sudden nervous jerk; 
but he was the only moving thing in the white streets, except 
when the wind swooped round a corner and threw up the snow, 
which was beginning to freeze, in spouts of glittering dust. 

Suddenly he saw, a long way before him, a black clump and 
a couple of lanterns. The clump was in motion, and the lanterns 



376 A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 

swung as though carried by men walking. It was a patrol. 
And though it was merely crossing his line of march he judged 
it wiser to get out of eyeshot as speedily as he could. He was 
not in the humor to be challenged, and he was conscious of 
making a very conspicuous mark upon the snow. Just on his 
left hand there stood a great hotel, with some turrets and a large 
porch before the door; it was half-ruinous, he remembered, 
and had long stood empty; and so he made three steps of it, 
and jumped into the shelter of the porch. It was pretty dark 
inside, after the glimmer of the snowy streets, and he was groping 
forward with outspread hands, when he stumbled over some sub- 
stance which offered an indescribable mixture of resistances, 
hard and soft, firm and loose. His heart gave a leap, and he 
sprang two steps back and stared dreadfully at the obstacle. 
Then he gave a little laugh of relief. It was only a woman, and 
she dead. He knelt beside her to make sure upon this latter 
point. She was freezing cold, and rigid like a stick. A little 
ragged finery fluttered in the wind about her hair, and her cheeks 
had been heavily rouged that same afternoon. Her pockets 
were quite empty; but in her stocking, underneath the garter, 
Villon found two of the small coins that went by the name of 
whites. It was little enough; but it was always something; 
and the poet was moved with a deep sense of pathos that she 
should have died before she had spent her money. That seemed 
to him a dark and pitiable mystery; and he looked from the 
coins in his hand to the dead woman, and back again to the 
coins, shaking his head over the riddle of man's life. Henry V 
of England, dying at Vincennes just after he had conquered 
France, and this poor jade cut off by a cold draught in a great 
man's doorway, before she had time to spend her couple of 
whites — it seemed a cruel way to carry on the world. Two 
whites would have taken such a little while to squander; and 
yet it would have been one more good taste in the mouth, one 
more smack of the lips, before the devil got the soul, and the body 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 377 

was left to birds and vermin. He would like to use all his tallow 
before the light was blown out and the lantern broken. 

While these thoughts were passing through his mind, he was 
feeling, half mechanically, for his purse. Suddenly his heart 
stopped beating; a feeling of cold scales passed up the back of 
his legs, and a cold blow seemed to fall upon his scalp. He stood 
petrified for a moment; then he felt again with one feverish 
movement; and then his loss burst upon him, and he was covered 
at once with perspiration. To spendthrifts money is so living 
and actual — it is such a thin veil between them and their 
pleasures! There is only one limit to their fortune — that of 
time; and a spendthrift with only a few crowns is the Emperor 
of Rome until they are spent. For such a person to lose his 
money is to suffer the most shocking reverse, and fall from 
heaven to hell, from all to nothing, in a breath. And all the 
more if he has put his head in the halter for it; if he may be 
hanged to-morrow for that same purse, so dearly earned, so 
foolishly departed! Villon stood and cursed; he threw the two 
whites into the street; he shook his fist at heaven; he stamped, 
and was not horrified to find himself trampling the poor corpse. 
Then he began rapidly to retrace his steps towards the house 
beside the cemetery. He had forgotten all fear of the patrol, 
which was long gone by at any rate, and had no idea but that of 
his lost purse. It was in vain that he looked right and left 
upon the snow: nothing was to be seen. He had not dropped 
it in the streets. Had it fallen in the house? He would have 
liked dearly to go in and see; but the idea of the grisly occupant 
unmanned him. And he saw besides, as he drew near, that their 
efforts to put out the fire had been unsuccessful; on the contrary, 
it had broken into a blaze, and a changeful light played in the 
chinks of door and window, and revived his terror for the au- 
thorities and Paris gibbet. 

He returned to the hotel with the porch, and groped about 
upon the snow for the money he had thrown away in his childish 



378 A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 

passion. But he could only find one white; the other had prob- 
ably struck sideways and sunk deeply in. With a single white 
in his pocket, all his projects for a rousing night in some wild 
tavern vanished utterly away. And it was not only pleasure 
that fled laughing from his grasp; positive discomfort, positive 
pain, attacked him as he stood ruefully before the porch. His 
perspiration had dried upon him; and although the wind had 
now fallen, a binding frost was setting in stronger with every 
hour, and he felt benumbed and sick at heart. What was to 
be done? Late as was the hour, improbable as was success, he 
would try the house of his adopted father, the chaplain of St. 
Benoit. 

He ran there all the way, and knocked timidly. There was 
no answer. He knocked again and again, taking heart with 
every stroke; and at last steps were heard approaching from 
within. A barred wicket fell open in the iron-studded door, 
and emitted a gush of yellow light. 

"Hold up your face to the wicket," said the chaplain from 
within. 

"It is only me," whimpered Villon. 

"Oh, it's only you, is it?" returned the chaplain; and he 
cursed him with foul unpriestly oaths for disturbing him at such 
an hour, and bade him be off to hell, where he came from. 

"My hands are blue to the wrist," pleaded Villon; "my feet 
are dead and full of twinges; my nose aches with the sharp air; 
the cold lies at my heart. I may be dead before morning. 
Only this once, father, and before God, I will never ask again!" 

" You should have come earlier," said the ecclesiastic coolly. 
"Young men require a lesson now and then." He shut the 
wicket and retired deliberately into the interior of the house. 

Villon was beside himself; he beat upon the door with his 
hands and feet, and shouted hoarsely after the chaplain. 

"Wormy old fox!" he cried. "If I had my hand under your 
twist, I would send you flying headlong into the bottomless pit." 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 379 

A door shut in the interior, faintly audible to the poet down 
long passages. He passed his hand over his mouth with an 
oath. And then the humor of the situation struck him, and 
he laughed and looked lightly up to heaven, where the stars 
seemed to be winking over his discomfiture. 

What was to be done? It looked very like a night in the frosty 
streets. The idea of the dead woman popped into his imagin- 
ation, and gave him a hearty fright; what had happened to her 
in the early night might very well happen to him before morning. 
And he so young! and with such immense possibilities of dis- 
orderly amusement before him! He felt quite pathetic over the 
notion of his own fate, as if it had been some one else's, and made 
a little imaginative vignette of the scene in the morning when 
they should find his body. 

He passed all his chances under review, turning the white 
between his thumb and forefinger. Unfortunately he was on 
bad terms with some old friends who would once have taken pity 
on him in such a plight. He had lampooned them in verses; 
he had beaten and cheated them; and yet now, when he was in 
so close a pinch, he thought there was at least one who might 
perhaps relent. It was a chance. It was worth trying at least, 
and he would go and see. 

On the way, two little accidents happened to him which 
colored his musings in a very different manner. For, first, he 
fell in with the track of a patrol, and walked in it for some 
hundred yards, although it lay out of his direction. And this 
spirited him up; at least he had confused his trail; for he was 
still possessed with the idea of people tracking him all about 
Paris over the snow, and collaring him next morning before he 
was awake. The other matter affected him quite differently. 
He passed a street corner, where, not so long before, a woman 
and her child had been devoured by wolves. This was just 
the kind of weather, he reflected, when wolves might take it 
into their heads to enter Paris again; and a lone man in these 



33o A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 

deserted streets would run the chance of something worse than 
a mere scare. He stopped and looked upon the place with an 
unpleasant interest — it was a centre where several lanes inter- 
sected each other; and he looked down them all, one after 
another, and held his breath to listen, lest he should detect some 
galloping black things on the snow or hear the sound of howling 
between him and the river. He remembered his mother telling 
him the story and pointing out the spot, while he was yet a child. 
His mother! If he only knew where she lived, he might make 
sure at least of shelter. He determined he would inquire upon 
the morrow; nay, he would go and see her too, poor old girl! 
So thinking, he arrived at his destination — his last hope for 
the night. 

The house was quite dark, like its neighbors; and yet after 
a few taps, he heard a movement overhead, a door opening, 
and a cautious voice asking who was there. The poet named 
himself in a loud whisper, and waited, not without some trepi- 
dation, the result. Nor had he to wait long. A window was 
suddenly opened, and a pailful of slops splashed down upon 
the doorstep. Villon had not been unprepared for something 
of the sort, and had put himself as much in shelter as the nature 
of the porch admitted; but for all that, he was deplorably 
drenched below the waist. His hose began to freeze almost at 
once. Death from cold and exposure stared him in the face; 
he remembered he was of phthisical tendency, and began cough- 
ing tentatively. But the gravity of the danger steadied his 
nerves. He stopped a few hundred yards from the door where 
he had been so rudely used, and reflected with his finger to his 
nose. He could only see one way of getting a lodging, and that 
was to take it. He had noticed a house nor far away, which 
looked as if it might be easily broken into, and thither he be- 
took himself promptly, entertaining himself on the way with the 
idea of a room still hot, with a table still loaded with the remains 
of supper, where he might pass the rest of the black hours and 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 381 

whence he should issue, on the morrow, with an armful of valu- 
able plate. He even considered what viands and what wines 
he should prefer; and as he was calling the roll of his favorite 
dainties, roast fish presented itself to his mind with an odd 
mixture of amusement and horror. 

"I shall never finish that ballade," he thought to himself; 
and then, with another shudder at the recollection, "Oh, damn 
his fat head!" he repeated fervently, and spat upon the snow. 

The house in question looked dark at first sight; but as Villon 
made a preliminary inspection in search of the handiest point 
of attack, a little twinkle of light caught his eye from behind 
a curtained window. 

" The devil !" he thought. " People awake ! Some student or 
some saint, confound the crew! Can't they get drunk and lie 
in bed snoring like their neighbors ! What's the good of curfew, 
and poor devils of bell-ringers jumping at a rope's end in bell- 
towers? What's the use of day, if people sit up all night? 
The gripes to them!" He grinned as he saw where his logic 
was leading him. "Every man to his business, after all," 
added he, "and if they're awake, by the Lord, I may come by 
a supper honestly for once, and cheat the devil." 

He went boldly to the door and knocked with an assured hand. 
On both previous occasions, he had knocked timidly and with 
some dread of attracting notice; but now when he had just 
discarded the thought of a burglarious entry, knocking at a 
door seemed a mighty simple and innocent proceeding. The 
sound of his blows echoed through the house with thin, phan- 
tasmal reverberations, as though it were quite empty; but these 
had scarcely died away before a measured tread drew near, 
a couple of bolts were withdrawn, and one wing was opened 
broadly, as though no guile or fear of guile were known to those 
within. A tall figure of a man, muscular and spare, but a little 
bent, confronted Villon. The head was massive in bulk, but 
finely sculptured; the nose blunt at the bottom, but refining 



382 A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 

upward to where it joined a pair of strong and honest eyebrows; 
the mouth and eyes surrounded with delicate markings, and the 
whole face based upon a thick white beard, boldly and squarely 
trimmed. Seen as it was by the light of a flickering hand-lamp, 
it looked perhaps nobler than it had a right to do; but it was 
a fine face, honorable rather than intelligent, strong, simple, 
and righteous. 

" You knock late, sir," said the old man in resonant courteous 
tones. 

Villon cringed and brought up many servile words of apology; 
at a crisis of this sort, the beggar was uppermost in him, and the 
man of genius hid his head with confusion. 

"You are cold," repeated the old man, "and hungry? Well, 
step in." And he ordered him into the house with a noble 
enough gesture. 

"Some great seigneur," thought Villon, as his host, setting 
down the lamp on the flagged pavement of the entry, shot 
the bolts once more into their places. 

"You will pardon me if I go in front," he said, when this 
was done; and he preceded the poet upstairs into a large apart- 
ment, warmed with a pan of charcoal and lit by a great lamp 
hanging from the roof . It was very bare of furniture: only some 
gold plate on a sideboard; some folios; and a stand of armor 
between the windows. Some smart tapestry hung upon the 
walls, representing the crucifixion of our Lord in one piece, 
and in another a scene of shepherds and shepherdesses by a 
running stream. Over the chimney was a shield of arms. 

"Will you seat yourself," said the old man, "and forgive me if 
I leave you? I am alone in my house to-night, and if you are 
to eat I must forage for you myself." 

No sooner was his host gone than Villon leaped from the 
chair on which he had just seated himself, and began examin- 
ing the room, with the stealth and passion of a cat. He weighed 
the gold flagons in his hand, opened all the folios, and investi- 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 383 

gated the arms upon the shield, and the stuff with which the 
seats were lined. He raised the window curtains, and saw that 
the windows were set with rich stained glass in figures, so far 
as he could see, of martial import. Then he stood in the 
middle of the room, drew a long breath, and retaining it with 
puffed cheeks, looked round and round him, turning on his 
heels, as if to impress every feature of the apartment on his 
memory. 

, "Seven pieces of plate," he said. "If there had been ten, I 
would have risked it. A fine house, and a fine old master, so 
help me all the saints!" 

And just then, hearing the old man's tread returning along 
the corridor, he stole back to his chair, and began humbly 
toasting his wet legs before the charcoal pan. 

His entertainer had a plate of meat in one hand and a jug of 
wine in the other. He set down the plate upon the table, 
motioning Villon to draw in his chair, and going to the side- 
board, brought back two goblets, which he filled. 

"I drink your better fortune," he said, gravely touching 
Villon's cup with his own. 

"To our better acquaintance," said the poet, growing bold. 
A mere man of the people would have been awed by the courtesy 
of the old seigneur, but Villon was hardened in that matter; 
he had made mirth for great lords before now, and found them 
as black rascals as himself. And so he devoted himself to the 
viands with a ravenous gusto, while the old man, leaning back- 
ward, watched him with steady, curious eyes. 

"You have blood on your shoulder, my man," he said. 

Montigny must have laid his wet right hand upon him as he 
left the house. He cursed Montigny in his heart. 

"It was none of my shedding," he stammered. 

"I had not supposed so," returned his host quietly. "A 
brawl?" 

"Well, something of that sort," Villon admitted with a quaver. 



384 A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 

"Perhaps a fellow murdered?" 

"Oh no, not murdered," said the poet, more and more con- 
fused. "It was all fair play — murdered by accident. I had 
no hand in it, God strike me dead!" he added fervently. 

"One rogue the fewer, I dare say," observed the master of 
the house. 

"You may dare to say that," agreed Villon, infinitely re- 
lieved. "As big a rogue as there is between here and Jerusalem. 
He turned up his toes like a lamb. But it was a nasty thing to . 
look at. I dare say you've seen dead men in your time, my 
lord?" he added, glancing at the armor. 

"Many," said the old man. "I have followed the wars, as 
you imagine." 

Villon laid down his knife and fork, which he had just taken 
up again. 

"Were any of them bald?" he asked. 

"Oh yes, and with hair as white as mine." 

"I don't think I should mind the white so much," said 
Villon. "His was red." And he had a return of his shuddering 
and tendency to laughter, which he drowned with a great draught 
of wine. "I'm a little put out when I think of it," he went 
on. "I knew him — damn him! And then the cold gives a 
man fancies — or the fancies give a man cold, I don't know 
which." 

"Have you any money? " asked the old man. 

"I have one white," returned the poet, laughing. "I got 
it out of a dead jade's stocking in a porch. She was as dead as 
Caesar, poor wench, and as cold as a church, with bits of ribbon 
sticking in her hair. This is a hard world in winter for wolves 
and wenches and poor rogues like me." 

"I," said the old man, "am Enguerrand de la Feuillee, 
seigneur de Brisetout, bailly du Patatrac. Who and what may 
you be?" 

Villon rose and made a suitable reverence. "I am called 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 385 

Francis Villon," he said, "a poor Master of Arts of this uni- 
versity. I know some Latin, and a deal of vice. I can make 
chansons, ballades, lais, virelais, and roundels, and I am very 
fond of wine. I was born in a garret, and I shall not improbably 
die upon the gallows. I may add, my lord, that from this night 
forward I am your lordship's very obsequious servant to com- 
mand." 

"No servant of mine," said the knight; "my guest for this 
evening, and no more." 

"A very grateful guest," said Villon, politely, and he drank 
in dumb show to his entertainer. 

"You are shrewd," began the old man, tapping his forehead, 
"very shrewd; you have learning ; you are a clerk; and yet you 
take a small piece of money off a dead woman in the street. 
Is it not a kind of theft?" 

"It is a kind of theft much practiced in the wars, my lord." 

"The wars are the field of honor," returned the old man 
proudly. "There a man plays his life upon the cast; he fights 
in the name of his lord the king, his Lord God, and all their 
lordships the holy saints and angels." 

"Put it," said Villon, "that I were really a thief, should I not 
play my life also, and against heavier odds?" 

"For gain but not for honor." 

"Gain?" repeated Villon with a shrug. "Gain! The poor 
fellow wants supper and takes it. So does the soldier in a cam- 
paign. Why, what are all these requisitions we hear so much 
about? If they are not gain to those who take them, they are 
loss enough to the others. The men-at-arms drink by a good 
fire, while the burgher bites his nails to buy them wine and wood. 
I have seen a good many ploughmen swinging on trees about the 
country; ay, I have seen thirty on one elm, and a very poor 
figure they made; and when I asked some one how all these 
came to be hanged, I was told it was because they could not 
scrape together enough crowns to satisfy the men-at-arms." 



386 A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 

"These things are a necessity of war, which the lowborn 
must endure with constancy. It is true that some captains 
drive overhard; there are spirits in every rank not easily moved 
by pity; and indeed many follow arms who are no better than 
brigands." 

"You see," said the poet, "you can not separate the soldier 
from the brigand; and what is a thief but an isolated brigand 
with circumspect manners? I steal a couple of mutton chops, 
without so much as disturbing people's sleep; the farmer grum- 
bles a bit, but sups none the less wholesomely on what remains. 
You come up blowing gloriously on a trumpet, take away the 
whole sheep, and beat the farmer pitifully into the bargain. 
I have no trumpet; I am only Tom, Dick, or Harry; I am a 
rogue and a dog, and hanging's too good for me — with all 
my heart; but just ask the farmer which of us he prefers, just 
find out which of us he lies awake to curse on cold nights." 

"Look at us two," said his lordship. "I am old, strong, and 
honored. If I were turned from my house to-morrow, hundreds 
would be proud to shelter me. Poor people would go out and 
pass the night in the streets with their children, if I merely 
hinted that I wished to be alone. And I find you up, wandering 
homeless, and picking farthings off dead women by the wayside ! 
I fear no man and nothing; I have seen you tremble and lose 
countenance at a word. I wait God's summons contentedly 
in my own house, or, if it please the king to call me again, upon 
the field of battle. You look for the gallows; a rough, swift 
death, without hope or honor. Is there no difference between 
these two?" 

"As far as to the moon," Villon acquiesced. "But if I had 
been born lord of Brisetout, and you had been the poor scholar 
Francis, would the difference have been any the less? Should 
not I have been warming my knees at this charcoal pan, and 
would not you have been groping for farthings in the snow? 
Should not I have been the soldier, and you the thief?" 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 387 

"A thief?" cried the old man. "I a thief! If you understood 
your words, you would repent them." 

Villon turned out his hands with a gesture of inimitable 
impudence. "If your lordship had done me the honor to follow 
my argument!" he said. 

"I do you too much honor in submitting to your presence," 
said the knight. "Learn to curb your tongue when you speak 
with old and honorable men, or some one hastier than I may 
reprove you in a sharper fashion." And he rose and paced the 
lower end of the apartment, struggling with anger and antip- 
athy. Villon surreptitiously refilled his cup, and settled him- 
self more comfortably in the chair, crossing his knees and leaning 
his head upon one hand and the elbow against the back of the 
chair. He was now replete and warm; and he was in nowise 
frightened for his host, having gauged him as justly as was pos- 
sible between two such different characters. The night was 
far spent, and in a very comfortable fashion after all; and he 
felt morally certain of a safe departure on the morrow. 

"Tell me one thing," said the old man, pausing in his walk. 
"Are you really a thief?" 

"I claim the sacred rights of hospitality," returned the poet. 
"My lord, I am." 

"You are very young," the knight continued. 

"I should never have been so old," replied Villon, showing his 
fingers, "if I had not helped myself with these ten talents. 
They have been my nursing mothers and my nursing fathers." 

"You may still repent and change." 

"I repent daily," said the poet. "There are few people more 
given to repentance than poor Francis. As for change, let some- 
body change my circumstances. A man must continue to eat, 
if it were only that he may continue to repent." 

"The change must begin in the heart," returned the old man 
solemnly. 

"My dear lord," answered Villon, "do you really fancy that 



388 A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 

I steal for pleasure? I hate stealing, like any other piece of work 
or of danger. My teeth chatter when I see a gallows. But I 
must eat, I must drink, I must mix in society of some sort. 
What the devil! Man is not a solitary animal — cut Deus 
fcBtninam tradit. Make me king's pander — make me abbot 
of St. Denis; make me bailly of the Patatrac; and then I 
shall be changed indeed. But as long as you leave me the poor 
scholar Francis Villon, without a farthing, why, of course, I 
remain the same." 

"The grace of God is all-powerful." 

"I should be a heretic to question it," said Francis. "It 
has made you lord of Brisetout and bailly of the Patatrac; it 
has given me nothing but the quick wits under my hat and 
these ten toes upon my hands. May I help myself to wine? 
I thank you respectfully. By God's grace, you have a very 
superior vintage." 

The lord of Brisetout walked to and fro with his hands behind 
his back. Perhaps he was not yet quite settled in his mind 
about the parallel between thieves and soldiers; perhaps Villon 
had interested him by some cross-thread of sympathy; perhaps 
his wits were simply muddled by so much unfamiliar reasoning; 
but whatever the cause, he somehow yearned to convert the 
young man to a better way of thinking, and could not make up 
his mind to drive him forth again into the street. 

" There is something more than I can understand in this," 
he said at length. "Your mouth is full of subtleties, and the 
devil has led you very far astray; but the devil is only a very 
weak spirit before God's truth, and all his subtleties vanish at a 
word of true honor, like darkness at morning. Listen to me 
once more. I learned long ago that a gentleman should live 
chivalrously and lovingly to God, and the king, and his lady; 
and though I have seen many strange things done, I have still 
striven to command my ways upon that rule. It is not only 
written in all noble histories, but in every man's heart, if he will 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 389 

take care to read. You speak of food and wine, and I know 
very well that hunger is a difficult trial to endure; but you do 
not speak of other wants; you say nothing of honor, of faith 
to God and other men, of courtesy, of love without reproach. 
It may be that I am not very wise — and yet I think I am — 
but you seem to me like one who has lost his way and made a 
great error in life. You are attending to the little wants, and 
you have totally forgotten the great and only real ones, like 
a man who should be doctoring toothache on the Judgment Day. 
For such things as honor and love and faith are not only nobler 
than food and drink, but indeed I think we desire them more, 
and suffer more sharply for their absence. I speak to you as 
I think you will most easily understand me. Are you not, 
while careful to fill your belly, disregarding another appetite 
in your heart which spoils the pleasure of your life and keeps 
you continually wretched?" 

Villon was sensibly nettled under all this sermonizing. " You 
think I have no sense of honor!" he cried. "I'm poor enough, 
God knows! It's hard to see rich people with their gloves, 
and you blowing in your hands. An empty belly is a bitter 
thing, although you speak so lightly of it. If you had had as 
many as I, perhaps you would change your tune. Anyway 
I 'm a thief — make the most of that — but I 'm not a devil 
from hell, God strike me dead. I would have you to know 
I've an honor of my own, as good as yours, though I don't 
prate about it all day long, as if it was a God's miracle to have 
any. It seems quite natural to me; I keep it in its box till 
it's wanted. Why now, look you here, how long have I been in 
this room with you? Did you not tell me you were alone in 
the house ! Look at your gold plate ! You 're strong, if you like, 
but you're old and unarmed, and I have my knife. What did 
I want but a jerk of the elbow and here would have been you 
with the cold steel in your bowels, and there would have been 
me, linking in the streets, with an armful of golden cups! Did 



390 A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 

you suppose I hadn't wit enough to see that? And I scorned 
the action. There are your damned goblets, as safe as in a 
church; there are you, with your heart ticking as good as new; 
and here am I, ready to go out again as poor as I came in, with 
my one white that you threw in my teeth! And you think 
I have no sense of honor — God strike me dead!" 

The old man stretched out his right arm. "I will tell you 
what you are," he said. "You are a rogue, my man, an impu- 
dent and black-hearted rogue and vagabond. I have passed 
an hour with you. Oh! believe me, I feel myself disgraced! 
And you have eaten and drunk at my table. But now I am sick 
at your presence; the day has come, and the night-bird should 
be off to his roost. Will you go before, or after?" 

"Which you please," returned the poet, rising, "I believe 
you to be strictly honorable." He thoughtfully emptied his 
cup. "I wish I could add you were intelligent," he went on, 
knocking on his head with his knuckles. "Age! age! the brains 
stiff and rheumatic." 

The old man preceded him from a point of self-respect; 
Villon followed, whistling, with his thumbs in his girdle. 

"God pity you," said the lord of Brisetout at the door. 

"Good-bye, papa," returned Villon with a yawn. "Many 
thanks for the cold mutton." 

The door closed behind him. The dawn was breaking over 
the white roofs. A chill, uncomfortable morning ushered 
in the day. Villon stood and heartily stretched himself in the 
middle of the road. 

"A very dull old gentleman," he thought. "I wonder what 
his goblets may be worth." 



PART V 

HOW TO PRESENT A MORAL ISSUE 



PART V 

INTRODUCTION 

HOW TO PRESENT A MORAL ISSUE 

A moral issue is but a particular form of the marking incident 
explained in the last section. A man often brings the elements 
of his character most definitely to a focus when facing a problem 
of conduct. A conscious effort to decide between right and 
wrong precipitates a struggle in which his salient qualities, 
both of strength and of weakness, take part. 

Not all marking incidents, it is true, point to moral issues. 
Some of them are mere adventures which display a character's 
faculties freely in action. The headlong courses of Francois 
Villon are never restrained by ethical considerations. A 
Lodging for the Night, therefore, proves his character of complete 
scapegrace effectively, because it pictures events so largely 
as mere physical emergencies unrelated to any problem of 
right or wrong. Similarly Bathsheba Everdene is not of a 
nature to face moral issues. She habitually lets her blood speak 
and decide for her. Her capricious dismissal of Oak, therefore, 
and her speedy recalling of him, when she realizes that only he 
can help her, are not expressions of a moral purpose. Certain 
types of character, however, are understood only when seen in 
an ethical crisis, and they are usually the men and women 
most sure to arouse literary interest. 

The power demanded in a writer for the presentation of cru- 
cial moral instances is to be gained only by a thorough analysis 
of real life. To the thoughtful man alone will life appear as a 
series of questions of conduct. Yet that is what life is in its 



394 HOW TO PRESENT A MORAL ISSUE 

most interesting and by no means its least cheerful aspect, and 
the thoughtful man realizes that only by facing these questions 
in his own career and by solving the problems that they suggest 
can he become in some measure the man that he wishes to be. 

To the thoughtless observer of life moral issues, even when 
clearly recognized, are rarely charged with their full significance. 
Events come and go, and we fail to distinguish the unimportant 
from those which are real turning points. Seldom, for instance, 
would a young girl in placing a saucer of sugar upon the table, 
even against her father's will, realize that she was at that 
moment passing through a crisis of profound significance. 
Yet Eugenie Grandet knows that this trivial act is the crucial 
test of her character, and that if she fails to do this slight service 
for Charles, she will remain the slave of her father's avarice. 
The importance which Balzac attaches to this act is made per- 
fectly clear in the phrase in which he exalts Eugenie's courage 
over that of the fair Parisian "who exerts all the strength of 
her weak arms to help her lover to escape by a ladder of silken 
cords." Eugenie's recognition of the crisis in this simple in- 
cident makes it a marking incident. Her willingness to meet the 
crisis gives her power over her own destiny. 

The refusal to face or to settle a moral question, which is 
clearly enough recognized, is usually most dangerous to personal 
mastery. Let us take a too common instance. You have good 
reason to believe, perhaps, that one of your friends is regularly 
copying your college exercises. Yet rather than precipitate 
a number of difficult ethical problems for yourself, you ignore 
the fact. You thereby refuse to hold the situation steadily 
before your judgment until you feel in it the urge of a moral 
crisis. Carelessness of this sort is as fatal to your character as 
stupidity in understanding problems of conduct is to clear 
writing. Stupid writers and men afflicted with moral indiffer- 
ence are usually in the same category. They are thoughtless 
observers of life. 



HOW TO PRESENT A MORAL ISSUE 395 

Many students will feel that their ethical life is beset by none 
of the difficulties here described. "I have no trouble in recog- 
nizing a moral issue," they will say. "The difference between 
right and wrong has always been perfectly clear to me. Above 
all, I know perfectly well when I am making a choice between 
the two." Most children find their moral life thus simple. 
They live according to laws laid down by their parents or their 
schoolmasters. These they either reject or accept without 
criticism. If they do transgress this simple moral code of theirs, 
they do so consciously. Some sheltered persons continue to 
live for a large part of their lives according to the ethical precepts 
of others. Their morality is mechanical. Such persons are 
scarcely conscious of questions of conduct; at least they are 
never perplexed by them. Consequently they are unable to 
recognize the moral struggles of other people or to present 
them in fiction. 

Some time before one goes to college, however, he is apt to 
find himself in a thrilling position of moral independence. He 
may, for example, be suddenly brought to doubt whether the 
familiar ideal of self-sacrifice is, after all, always to be followed. 
Should a boy allow his father to incur debt in order to send him 
to college? Should a girl stay at home and give her mother 
needed help with a large family or accept the offer of a rich 
relative to put her through college? The answer to these ques- 
tions cannot be found mechanically. The rules of conduct 
learned from others seem inapplicable to such crises as these. 
Now, as a person begins to consider a problem of this sort 
seriously, he becomes aware, perhaps for the first time, of the 
widely different results of two possible courses of action. His 
decision then appears to him as more and more momentous. 
He realizes that he is at a turning point in his life. 

After a single searching experience of this sort, a man is awake 
to similar crises in the history of other men. He sees the prob- 
lems which test their moral nature. He may appreciate, let us 



396 HOW TO PRESENT A MORAL ISSUE 

say, the struggle of a married man in England during the first 
months of the war when facing the question of enlistment in 
the army. How much does such a man owe to the safety or 
comfort of his immediate family as compared to that remote or 
intangible thing, the future safety of his country. The student, 
given insight through his own experience, will be able to create 
imaginatively many of the conditions of this quite unfamiliar 
situation. In so doing he will be choosing from the welter of 
life the essentials of a moral issue and presenting them, perhaps 
only to his own mind; but in this form of meditation he has 
presented a moral issue in the form of fiction. This power, 
it can readily be seen, cannot be greater than the individual's 
ability to recognize the crucial points in his own ethical life. 
For this ability depends on his imagination. Without it a man 
can scarcely recognize the moral occasions in his own life, to 
say nothing of foreseeing the results. Thus, they will not 
appear as crises. The modern soldier is given such explicit 
and careful direction both in the training camp and before the 
battle that during the actual charge he simply obeys orders. 
Often he has no chance for imagination or individual initiative 
left him. Even his courage, therefore, tends to be automatic. 
He passes through a great ordeal without having it consciously 
search his spirit. 

Crises in the life of any man may be similarly settled through 
evocation of dead phrases or traditional wisdom. Almost 
every one has wondered what he would do if he awoke to find 
a burglar in his house. He has heard over and over again that 
the wise thing to do is to offer no resistance. The chances are, 
then, that if he meets the real situation, he will follow the advice 
that he has often heard with approval. If the man is imagin- 
ative and far-seeing, however, he may come to believe that if 
burglars always met with stout resistance they might cease to 
exist. If he came to this conclusion, he might feel that it would 
be his duty to fight burglars, whatever the cost to him. If the 



HOW TO PRESENT A MORAL ISSUE 397 

occasion ever arose in this man's life, it would present a moral 
issue, apprehended as such because he is a man of imagination. 

So in fiction, a character without imagination cannot be 
conceived as solving a problem of conduct. If the hero in 
The Greater Love had been a mere dare-devil, the story would 
have presented no moral issue. The instinctive plunge over- 
board of such a man would have been little more than an act of 
physical elation. Shortie is of a different sort. He is a quiet, 
meditative fellow, full of thoughts of the girl he is to marry at 
the end of the voyage. These pleasant anticipations, we 
realize, were in his mind the moment he decided to plunge 
overboard after the seaman. For him, therefore, the act was 
the result of a deliberate decision, however swift. Similarly, 
in A Dead Issue, the tragi-comedy of Thorn's dishonesty de- 
pends entirely on his brooding, imaginative temperament. 

In fiction, the presentation of a moral issue is demanded of 
almost every sort of writer. A problem, in the wide sense in 
which the word has here been used, is the center of almost 
every modern play of note. In Ibsen's social dramas, the crisis 
almost surely involves a fundamental moral decision. Nora's 
determination to leave her husband's Doll House in order to 
win her own soul, is typical of the problem in most of Ibsen's 
plays and the vast number of social dramas written under their 
influence. Most of the stories in this volume present a moral 
issue, and those in this section have been chosen because, by 
approaching life from this angle, they make the problems in- 
volved especially pointed. 

A Dead Issue deals with a situation which any college student 
will recognize as typical of college life, and yet in which few would 
see an important moral crisis. Some instructor in every college 
is believed to show favoritism in giving marks. This fact is 
admitted and resented, but rarely thought to be of much vital 
importance to anyone. It comes to almost no one charged with 
deep ethical significance. "Of course, Prescott has a pull with 



398 HOW TO PRESENT A MORAL ISSUE 

Mr. Thorn," argues the careless student. "The instructoi 
will pass him whether he deserves to get through or not. But 
what is the difference? It can't have any particular effect on 
either Prescott or Mr. Thorn. The one undeserved mark 
won't get Prescott his degree, and Mr. Thorn will forget the one 
mark in the hundreds he gives each semester. There is no use in 
getting excited about this fact." Such an undergraduate has 
been too shallow or too thoughtless to see anything but neutral, 
insignificant facts in this part of his college life. 

A man with a trained moral sense, however, is able to see the 
instructor's deliberate dishonesty in its true proportion. Thus 
seen it marks a turning point in the career of both Mr. Thorn 
and young Prescott. The instructor loses his self-respect and 
with it all hope of establishing the free and intimate relations 
which he was eager to maintain with a small group of under- 
graduates. All the plans for a delightful existence with these 
fellows are shattered. Prescott, for his part, gains a deep con- 
tempt for Thorn and an attitude of cynicism toward the justice 
of his teachers in general that may ultimately warp his char- 
acter. A man who sees the dishonest favoritism of an instructor, 
as does the author of this story, can never regard it as a matter 
of indifference. He is a profound and steady enough observer 
to see in it important moral issues. 

An Unfinished Story presents an ethical problem and artfully 
leaves it unsolved. In this particular sketch, however, the 
method serves only to emphasize the primary importance of 
the moral issue. Kitchener's stern face gives the girl strength 
enough to conquer a natural temptation when conditions are 
comparatively favorable to her. The real crisis the author 
does not describe. He merely indicates what it will be. It 
will come, he tells us, when the same temptation overtakes the 
girl in an inevitable moment of fatigue and discouragement. 
This story may be thus regarded as a successful exercise in 
finding the great moral issue in the drab life of a shop-girl. The 



HOW TO PRESENT A MORAL ISSUE 399 

account of this circumstance is the story in her life. Often, 
to apprehend the chief moral issue in the career of a man is 
to find the only story that his life holds. 

Further insight, however, than the power to recognize in the 
hurry of events those moments which are crucial for character is 
demanded of the author who would present moral issues. He 
must also see them strictly in relation to character. Other- 
wise he will be but a preacher with an exemplum. He must 
appreciate the essentially slow and gradual effect even of vital 
decisions upon the daily walk and conversation of his men and 
women. In observing and describing circumstantially this 
essential process of growth, he will avoid his greatest danger — 
moral melodrama. 

In The Captain's Vices the moral problem is obvious. Cop- 
pee's skill is shown not so much in discovering the significant 
issue as in reducing its naked ethical appeal to a history of human 
growth. The story of a roue recalled from his wild courses by 
his love for a poor child might easily have become matter for 
a sermon. The author of the trite moral fable is almost sure 
to over-emphasize the lesson to be learned. In this fashion he 
inevitably relates the facts in the case but imperfectly to the 
temperament of the chief character in his story. But Coppee's 
tale in this respect is perfectly composed. The normal crisis 
not only grows out of Captain Mercadier's temperament, but 
it also proceeds to remould his character. The real liberation 
of the Captain's finer nature comes at the moment when he de- 
cides to take poor little Pierette into his service; and all the 
subsequent self-denials which he makes in her interest are the 
results of this first benevolent act. The author's insight into 
life in this case, then, lies only partially in his recognition of 
the moral significance of a seemingly insignificant event. It 
lies more often in his appreciation of the cumulative effects 
of one moral decision and of the essentially gradual revelation 
of its full meaning. It depends on the power to see how one 



400 HOW TO PRESENT A MORAL ISSUE 

crisis develops and modifies character through long periods of 
time. 

In this analysis of stories the kind of imagination required to 
present a moral issue in fiction has been suggested. Some of the 
problems of actual composition can be indicated by showing 
how far the moral issue is but a particular form of the marking 
incident. It may be argued that the moral issue is different 
from the marking or characteristic incident in that it seems to 
exist independent of character. For it may appear to some 
persons as a settled principle of human conduct rather than an 
illustration of some individual phase of it. If this were true, 
the writer of a problem story would invariably receive his initial 
impulse from the problem. The story would be his effort to 
give moral law concrete expression in the life of a man. The 
man would be chosen solely because he was just the sort to whom 
the problem could come. The author of A Dead Issue might 
be thought of as having created Marcus Thorn in this way. 
Yet Marcus Thorn could not have been conceived until the 
moral question of favoritism in giving marks had assumed some 
plot form. If the writer had decided to have the student a 
flirtatious girl, Marcus Thorn would have been an entirely 
different sort of man; and a different sort still if the student 
had been the son of the college president with whom the in- 
structor wished to curry favor. 

In this sense, a moral issue in fiction cannot exist as a sheer 
principle, independent of the characters and circumstances, 
and we may now affirm that characters can hardly exist inde- 
pendent of moral issues. 

If the moral issue in The Coward were of a slightly different 
sort, the nature of the central character would have to be corre- 
spondingly different. The Viscount de Signoles finds himself 
in the midst of a crisis because he fears that he will show the 
white feather in a duel. He values himself only for his gallant 
bearing and his reputation for swash-buckling bravado. To 



HOW TO PRESENT A MORAL ISSUE 401 

such a man an exhibition of cowardice is the final dishonor. 
Death is infinitely to be preferred to that. Suppose, however, 
that the Viscount has been very active in a movement to suppress 
duelling. He has considered the custom thoroughly foolish 
and demoralizing. When challenged by a member of his set, 
however, he has not the moral courage to brave social odium 
by refusing to accept. As he considers his course of action 
before the duel, he feels that by fighting he will imperil the 
whole social reform which is so dear to him and, more than that, 
appear ridiculously inconsistent and shallow in the eyes of the 
world. Rather than face this public scorn of his character, he 
commits suicide. The struggles of the two characters are much 
alike. Their outcome is identical. However, the moral issue 
in each case is essentially different; hence the characters would 
necessarily be quite unlike. 

These divergent facts tend to show that a story in which a 
moral issue is skillfully presented is one of the most highly 
composed forms of narrative. It accomplishes most surely 
an organic union of two of its formative elements — character 
and problem. Largely for this reason the presentation of a case 
of conduct in a narrative makes the strongest appeal to a thought- 
ful reader eager to increase his critical knowledge of life through 
fiction. The composition of such a story is perhaps the most 
valuable exercise for a student intent upon seeing life through 
the steady vision of the understanding. 



XXIX. THE GREATER LOVE 1 
Bartimeus 

f This story gives enough of the mental surroundings of an act of physical courage 
fo relate it to everyday life and to let it symbolize a great problem of duty. It is 
interesting to examine one's own life for a corresponding opportunity to act — not 
for a similar rare and heroic opportunity, perhaps, but for the everyday oppor- 
tunity to symbolize " the greater love. "3 

The sun was setting behind a lurid bank of cloud above the 
hills of Spain, and, as is usual at Gibraltar about that hour, a 
light breeze sprang up. It eddied round the Rock and scurried 
across the harbor, leaving dark cat's-paws in its trail; finally 
it reached the inner mole, alongside which a cruiser was lying. 

A long pendant of white bunting, that all day had hung 
listlessly from the main topmast, stirred, wavered, and finally 
bellied out astern, the gilded bladder at the tail bobbing uneasily 
over the surface of the water. 

The Officer of the Watch leaned over the rail and watched the 
antics of the bladder, round which a flock of querulous gulls 
circled and screeched. "The paying-off pendant 2 looks as if 
it were impatient," he said laughingly to an Engineer Lieutenant 
standing at his side. 

The other smiled in his slow way and turned seaward, nodding 
across the bay towards Algeciras. "Not much longer to wait 
— there's the steamer with the mail coming across now." He 
took a couple of steps across the deck and turned. "Only 
another 1200 miles. Isn't it ripping to think of, after three 
years . . . ? " He rubbed his hands with boyish satisfaction. 

1 Reprinted from Naval Occasions with the kind permission of Houghton Mifflin 
Company and of the author. 

2 A pendant, one-and-a-quarter times the length of the ship, flown by ships 
homeward bound under orders to pay off. 



BARTIMEUS 403 

"All the coal in and stowed — boats turned in, funnels smoking 
— that's what I like to see! Only the mail to wait for now; 
and the gauges down below" — he waggled his forefinger in 
the air, laughing, — "like that . . . !" 

The Lieutenant nodded and hitched his glass under his arm. 
"Your middle watch, Shortie? Mine too; we start working up 
for our passage trial then, don't we? Whack her up, lad — for 
England, Home, and Beauty!" 

The Engineer Lieutenant walked towards the hatchway. 
"What do you think!" and went below humming — 

" From Ushant to Scilly ..." 

The Lieutenant on watch turned and looked up at the Rock, 
towering over the harbor. Above the green-shuttered, pink 
and yellow houses, and dusty, sun-dried vegetation, the grim 
pile was flushing rose-color against the pure sky. How familiar 
it was, he thought, this great milestone on the road to the East, 
and mused awhile, wondering how many dawns he had lain 
under its shadow; how many more sunsets he would watch 
and marvel at across the purple Bay. 

"British as Brixton!" He had read the phrase in a book 
once, describing Gibraltar. So it was, when you were home- 
ward bound. He resumed his measured pacing to and fro. 
The ferry steamer had finished her short voyage and had gone 
alongside the wharf, out of sight behind an arm of the mole. 
Not much longer to wait now. He glanced at his wrist-watch. 
"Postie" wouldn't waste much time getting back. Not all the 
beer in Waterport Street nor all the glamor of the "Ramps" 
would lure him astray to-night. The Lieutenant paused in his 
measured stride and beckoned a side-boy. "Tell the signalman 
to let me know directly the postman is sighted coming along the 
mole." 

He resumed his leisurely promenade, wondering how many 
letters there would be for him, and who would write. His 



4 o4 



THE GREATER LOVE 



mother, of course, . . . and Ted at Charterhouse. His specu- 
lations roamed afield. Any one else? Then he suddenly 
remembered the Engineer Lieutenant imitating the twitching 
gauge-needle with his forefinger. Lucky beggar he was. There 
was some one waiting for him who mattered more than all the 
Teds in the world. More even than a Mother — at least, he 
supposed. . . . His thoughts became abruptly sentimental 
and tender. 

A signalman, coming helter-skelter down the ladder, inter- 
rupted them, as the Commander stepped out of his cabin on 
to the quarter-deck. 

" Postman comin' with the mail, sir." 

A few minutes later a hoist of flags whirled hurriedly to the 
masthead, asking permission to proceed "in execution of pre- 
vious orders." What those orders were, even the paying-off 
pendant knew, trailing aft over the stern-walk in the light 
wind. 



The Rock lay far astern like a tinted shadow, an opal set in 
a blue-grey sea. Once beyond the Straits the wind freshened, 
and the cruiser began to lift her lean bows to the swell, flinging 
the spray aft along the forecastle in silver rain. The Marine 
bugler steered an unsteady course to the quarterdeck hatchway 
and sounded the Officers' Dinner Call. 

" Officers wives eat puddings and pies, 
But sailors' wives eat skilly ..." 

chanted the Lieutenant of the impending first watch, swaying 
to the roll of the ship as he adjusted his tie before the mirror. 
He thumped the bulkhead between his cabin and the adjoining 
one. 

"Buck up, Shortie!" he shouted; "it's Saturday Night at 
Sea! Your night for a glass of port." 

"Sweethearts and wives!" called another voice across the flat. 



BARTIMEUS 405 

"You'll get drunk to-night, Snatcher, if you try to drink to 

all " the voice died away and rose again in expostulation 

with a Marine servant. ". . . Well, does it look like a clean 
shirt . . .!" 

"Give it a shake, Pay, and put it on like a man!" Some 
one else had joined in from across the flat. The Engineer 
Lieutenant pushed his head inside his neighbor's cabin: 
"Come along — come along! You'll be late for dinner. 
Fresh grub to-night: no more 'Russian Kromeskis' and 
1 Fanny Adams'!" 

"One second. . . . Right!" They linked arms and entered 
the Wardroom as the President tapped the table for grace. 
The Surgeon scanned the menu with interest. "Jasus! Phwat 
diet!" he ejaculated, quoting from an old Service story. "Lis- 
ten!" and read out — 

"Soup: Clear." 

"That's boiled swabs," interposed the Junior Watch-keeper. 

"Mr. President, sir, I object — this Officer's unladylike con- 
versation." 

"Round of port — fine him!" interrupted several laughing 
voices. 

"Go on, Doc; what next?" 

"Fish: 'Millets.' " 

"Main drain loungers," from the Junior Watch-keeper. 
"Isn't he a little Lord Fauntleroy — two rounds of port!" 

" Entree: Russian Kromeskis " A roar of protest. 

"And ?" 

"Mutton cutlets." 

"Goat, he means. What an orgie! Go on; fain would we 
hear the worst, fair chirurgeon," blathered the Paymaster. 
"Joint?" 

"Joint; mutton or " 

"Princely munificence," murmured the First Lieutenant. 
" He's not a messman-: he 's a — a — what 's the word?" 



406 THE GREATER LOVE 

"Philanthropist. What's the awful alternative?" 

"There isn't any; it's scratched out." The A.P. and the 
Junior Watch-keeper clung to each other. "The originality 
of the creature! And the duff?" 

"Rice-pudding." 

"Ah me! alack-a-day!" The Paymaster tore his hair. "I 
must prophesy. I must prophesy, — shut up, every one! Shut 
up!" He closed his eyes and pawed the air feebly. "I'm a 
medium. I'm going to prophesy. I feel it coming. . . . The 
savory is . . . the savory is" — there was a moment's tense 
silence — "sardines on toast." He opened his eyes. "Am I 
right, sir? Thank you." 

The Surgeon leaned forward, and picking up the massive silver 
shooting trophy that occupied the centre of the table, handed 
it to a waiter. 

"Take that to the Paymaster, please. First prize for divi- 
nation and second sight. And you, Snatcher — you '11 go down 
for another round of port if you keep on laughing with your 
mouth full." 

So the meal progressed. The "mullets" were disentangled 
from their paper jackets amid a rustling silence of interrogation. 
The Worcester sauce aided and abetted the disappearance of 
the Russian Kromeskis, as it had so often done before. The 
mutton was voted the limit, and the rice-pudding held evidences 
that the cook's hair wanted cutting. The Junior Watch- 
keeper — proud officer of that functionary's division — vowed 
he's have it cut in a manner which calls for no description in 
these pages. There weren't any sardines on toast. The 
Philanthropist appeared in person, with dusky, upturned palms, 
to deplore the omission. 

"Ow! signor — olla fineesh! I make mistake! No have 
got sardines, signor . . . !" 

"Dear old Ah Ying!" sighed the Engineer Lieutenant, "I 
never really loved him till this minute. Why did we leave him 



BARTIMEUS 407 

at Hong-Kong and embark this snake-in-the-grass. . . . No 
sardines . . . !" 

But for all that every one seemed to have made an admirable 
meal, and the Chaplain's "For what we have received, thank 
God!" brought it to a close. The table was cleared, the wine 
decanters passed round, and once again the President tapped 
with his ivory mallet. There was a little silence — 

"Mr Vice — the King!" 

The First Lieutenant raised his glass. " Gentlemen — the 
King!" 

"The King!" murmured the Mess, with faces grown suddenly 
decorous and grave. At that moment the Corporal of the Watch 
entered; he glanced down the table, and approaching the Junior 
Watch-keeper's chair saluted and said something in an under- 
tone. The Junior Watch-keeper nodded, finished his port, and 
rose, folding his napkin. His neighbor, the Engineer Lieutenant, 
leaned back in his chair, speaking over his shoulder — 

"You'r First Watch, James?" 

The other nodded. 

"Then," with mock solemnity, "may I remind you that our 
lives are in your hands till twelve o'clock? Don't forget that, 
will you?" 

The Junior Watch-keeper laughed. "I'll bear it in mind." 
At the doorway he turned with a smile: "It won't be the first 
time your valuable life has been there." 

"Or the last, we'll hope." 

"We'll hope not, Shortie." 

The buzz of talk and chaff had again begun to ebb and flow 
round the long table. The First Lieutenant lit a cigarette and 
began collecting napkin-rings, placing them eventually in a row, 
after the manner of horses at the starting-post. "Seven to 
one on the field, bar one — Chief, your ring's disqualified. It 
would go through the ship's side. Now, wait for the next roll — 
stand by! Clear that flower-pot " 



408 THE GREATER LOVE 

"Disqualified be blowed! Why, I turned it myself when I 
was a student, out of a bit of brass I stole " 

"Can't help that; it weighs a ton — scratched at the 
post!" 

The Commander tapped the table with his little hammer — 

"May I remind you all that it's Saturday Night at Sea?" 
and gave the decanters a little push towards his left-hand 
neighbor. The First Lieutenant brushed the starters into a 
heap at his side; the faintest shadow passed across his brow. 

"So it is!" echoed several voices. 

"Now, Shortie, fill up ! Snatcher, you 'd better have a bucket. 
. . . 'There's a Burmah girl a-settin' an' I know she thinks,' 
port, Number One?" The First Lieutenant signed an imper- 
ceptible negation and pushed the decanter round, murmuring 
something about hereditary gout. 

It was ten years since he had drunk that toast: since a certain 
tragic dawn, stealing into the bedroom of a Southsea lodging, 
found him on his knees at a bedside. . . . They all knew the 
story, as men in Naval Messes afloat generally do know each 
other's tragedies and joys. And yet his right-hand neighbor 
invariably murmured the same formula as he passed the wine on 
Saturday nights at sea. In its way it was considered a rather 
subtle intimation that no one wanted to pry into his sorrow — 
even to the extent of presuming that he would never drink that 
health again. 

In the same way they all knew that it was the one occasion 
on which the little Engineer Lieutenant permitted himself the 
extravagance of wine. He was saving up to get married; and 
perhaps for the reason that he had never mentioned the fact, 
every one not only knew it, but loved and chaffed him for it. 

The decanters traveled round, and the First Lieutenant 
leaned across to the Engineer Lieutenant, who was contem- 
platively watching the smoke of his cigarette. There was a 
whimsical smile in the grave, level eyes. 



BARTIMEUS 409 

"I suppose we shall have to think about rigging a garland 1 
before long, eh?" 

The other laughed half-shyly. "Yes, before long, I hope, 
Number One." 

Down came the ivory hammer — 

"Gentlemen — Sweethearts and Wives!" 

"And may they never meet!" added the Engineer Commander. 
In reality the most domesticated and blameless of husbands, it 
was the ambition of his life to be esteemed a sad dog, and that 
men should shake their heads over him crying "Fie!" 

The First Lieutenant gathered together his silver rings. 
"Now then, clear the table. She's rolling like a good 'un. 
Seven to one on the field, bar " 

"Speech!" broke in the Paymaster. "Speech, Shortie! 
Few words by a young officer about to embark on the troubled 
sea of matrimony. Hints on the Home " 

The prospective bridegroom shook his head, laughing, and 
colored in a way rather pleasant to see. He rose, pushing in 
his chair. In the inside pocket of his mess-jacket was an un- 
opened letter, saved up to read over a pipe in peace. 

"My advice to you all is " 

" Don't, " from the Engineer Commander. 

"Mind your own business," and the Engineer Lieutenant 
fled from the Mess amid derisive shouts of "Coward!" The 
voice of the First Lieutenant rose above the hubbub — 

" Seven to one on the field — and what about a jump or two? 
Chuck up the menu-card, Pay. Now, boys, roll, bowl, or 
pitch . . . ' Every time a blood-orange or a good see-gar' . . .!" 

The Officer of the First Watch leaned out over the bridge 
rails, peering into the darkness that enveloped the forecastle, 

1 A garland of evergreens is triced up to the triatic stay between the masts on 
the occasion of an officer's marriage. 



410 THE GREATER LOVE 

and listening intently. The breeze had freshened, and the cruiser 
slammed her way into a rising sea, laboring with the peculiar 
motion known as a "cork-screw roll" ; the night was very dark. 
Presently he turned and walked to the chart-house door; inside, 
the Navigation Officer was leaning over the chart, wrinkling 
his brows as he pencilled a faint line. 

"Pilot," said the other, "just step out here a second." 

The Navigator looked up, pushing his cap from his forehead. 
"What's up?" 

"I think the starboard anchor is 'talking.' I wish you'd 
come and listen a moment." The Navigator stepped out on to 
the bridge, closing the chart-house door after him, and paused 
a moment to accustom his eyes to the darkness. "Dark night, 
isn't it? Wind's getting up, too. . . ." He walked to the 
end of the bridge and leaned out. The ship plunged into a hol- 
low with a little shudder and then flung her bows upwards into 
a cascade of spray. A dull metallic sound detached itself from 
the sibilant rushing of water and the beat of waves against the 
ship's side, repeating faintly with each roll of the ship from the 
neighborhood of the anchor-bed. The Navigator nodded: 
"Yes, . . . one of the securing chains wants tautening, I should 
say. 'Saltash Luck' x for some one!" He moved back into the 
chart-house and picked up the parallel-rulers again. 

The Lieutenant of the Watch went to the head of the ladder 
and called the Boatswain's Mate, who was standing in the lee 
of the conning-tower yarning with the Corporal of the Watch — 

"Pipe the duty sub. of the watch to fall in with oilskins on; 
when they're present, take them on to the forecastle and set up 
the securing chain of the starboard bower-anchor. Something's 
worked loose. See that any one who goes outside the rail has 
a bowline on." 

"Aye, aye, sir." The Boatswain's Mate descended the lad- 
der, giving a few preliminary "cheeps" with his pipe before 

1 A thorough wetting. 



BARTIMEUS 411 

delivering himself of his tidings of "Saltash Luck" to the duty 
sub. of the port watch. 

The Officer of the Watch gave an order to the telegraph- 
man on the bridge, and far below in the engine-room they heard 
the clang of the telegraph gongs. He turned into the chart- 
house and opened the ship's log, glancing at the clock as he did 
so. Then he wrote with a stumpy bit of pencil — 

"9.18. Decreased speed to 6 knots. Duty sub. secured 
starboard bower-anchor." 

He returned to the bridge and leaned over the rail, straining 
his eyes into the darkness and driving spray towards the indis- 
tinct group of men working on the streaming forecastle. In 
the light of a swaying lantern he could make out a figure getting 
out on to the anchor-bed; another was turning up with a rope's 
end; he heard the faint click of a hammer on metal. The ship 
lurched and plunged abruptly into the trough of a sea. An 
oath, clear-cut and distinct, tossed aft on the wind, and a quick 
shout. 

He turned aft and rushed to the top of the ladder, bawling 
down between curved palms with all the strength of his lungs. 



The Engineer Lieutenant who left the wardroom after dinner 
did not immediately go on deck. He went first to his cabin, 
where he filled and lit a pipe, and changed his mess-jacket for 
a comfortable, loose-fitting monkey-jacket. Then he settled 
down in his armchair, wedged his feet against the bunk to 
steady himself against the roll of the ship, and read his letter. 
Often as he read he smiled, and once he blinked a little, misty- 
eyed. The last sheet he re-read several times. 

". . . Oh, isn't it good to think of! It was almost worth 
the pain of separation to have this happiness now — to know 
that every minute is bringing you nearer. I wake up in the 
morning with that happy sort of feeling that something nice 



412 THE GREATER LOVE 

is going to happen soon — and then I realize: you are coming 
Home ! I jump out of bed and tear another leaf off the calendar, 
— there are only nine left now, and then comes one marked with 
a big cross. . . . Do you know the kind of happiness that 
hurts? Or is it only a girl who can feel it? ... I pray every 
night that the days may pass quickly, and that you may come 
safely." 

It was a very ordinary little love-letter, with its shy admixture 
of love and faith and piety: the sort so few men ever earn, and 
so many (in Heaven's mercy) are suffered to receive. The re- 
cipient folded it carefully, replaced it in its envelope, and put 
it in his pocket. Then he lifted his head suddenly, listening. . . . 

Down below, the engine-room telegraph gong had clanged, 
and the steady beat of the engines slowed. With an eye on his 
wrist-watch he counted the muffled strokes of the piston. . . . 
Decreased to 6 knots. What was the matter? Fog? He rose 
and leaned over his bunk, peering through the scuttle. Quite 
clear. He decided to light a pipe and go on deck for a " breather" 
before turning in, and glanced at the little clock ticking on the 
bulkhead. Twenty past nine; ten minutes walk on the quarter- 
deck and then to bed. It was his middle watch. 

As he left his cabin some one in the wardroom began softly 
playing the piano, and the Paymaster's clear baritone joined in, 
singing a song about somebody's grey eyes watching for some- 
body else. The Mess was soaking in sentiment to-night: 
must be the effect of Saturday Night at Sea, he reflected. 

He reached the quarter-deck and stood looking round, sway- 
ing easily with the motion of the ship. The sea was getting up, 
and the wind blew a stream of tiny sparks from his pipe. Farther 
aft the sentry on the life-buoys was mechanically walking his 
beat, now toiling laboriously up a steep incline, now trying to 
check a too precipitous descent. The Engineer Lieutenant 
watched him for a moment, listening to the notes of the piano 
tinkling up through the open skylight from the wardroom. 



BARTIMEUS 413 

" I know of two white arms 
Waiting for me ..." 

The singer had started another verse; the Engineer Lieutenant 
smiled faintly, and walked to the ship's side to stare out into the 
darkness. Why on earth had they slowed down? A sudden 
impatience filled him. Every minute was precious now. 
Why 

"Man Overboard. Away Lifeboat's Crew!''' Not for nothing 
had the Officer of the Watch received a "Masts and Yards" 
upbringing; the wind forward caught the stentorian shout and 
hurled it along the booms and battery, aft to the quarter-deck 
where the little Engineer Lieutenant was standing, one hand 
closed over the glowing bowl of his pipe, the other thrust into 
his trousers pocket. 

The engine-room telegraph began clanging furiously, the 
sound passing up the casings and ventilators into the night; 
then the Boatswain's Mate sent his ear-piercing pipe along the 
decks, calling away the lifeboat's crew. The sentry on the life- 
buoys wrenched at the releasing knob of one of his charges and 
ran across to the other. 

The leaden seconds passed, and the Engineer still stood beside 
the rail, mechanically knocking the ashes from his pipe. . . . 
Then something went past on the crest of a wave: something 
white that might have been a man's face, or broken water 
showing up in the glare of a scuttle. ... A sound out of the 
darkness that might have been the cry of a low-flying gull. 

Now it may be argued that the Engineer Lieutenant ought 
to have stayed where he was. Going overboard on such a night 
was too risky for a man whose one idea was to get home as 
quickly as possible — who, a moment before, had chafed at 
the delay of reduced speed. Furthermore, he had in his pocket 
a letter bidding him come home safely; and for three years he 
had denied himself his little luxuries for love of her who wrote 
it. . . . 



414 THE GREATER LOVE 

All the same — would she have him stand and wonder if 
that was a gull he had heard . . .? 

Love of women, Love of life. . . . ! Mighty factors — almost 
supreme. Yet a mortal has stayed in a wrecked stokehold, 
amid the scalding steam, to find and shut a valve; Leper Settle- 
ments have their doctors and pastor; and "A very gallant 
Gentleman" walks unhesitatingly into an Antarctic blizzard, 
to show there is a love stronger and higher even than these. 

The Engineer Lieutenant was concerned with none of these 
fine thoughts. For one second he did pause, looking about as 
if for somewhere to put his pipe. Then he tossed it on to the 
deck, scrambled over the rail, took a deep breath, and dived. 

The Marine Sentry ran to the side of the ship. 

"Christ!" he gasped, and forsook his post, to cry the tale 
aloud along the seething battery. 

The ship shuddered as the engines were reversed, and the 
water under the stern began to seethe and churn. The Com- 
mander had left his cabin and was racing up to the bridge 
as the Captain reached the quarter-deck. A knot of officers 
gathered on the after-bridge. 

"Pin's out, sir!" shouted the Coxswain of the sea-boat, 
and added under his breath, "Oars all ready, lads! Stan' by 
to pull like bloody 'ell — there's two of 'em in the ditch. . . ." 

The boat was hanging a few feet above the tumbling water. 

"Slip!" shouted a voice from the invisible fore-bridge. An 
instant's pause, and the boat dropped with a crash on to a 
rising wave. There was a clatter and thud of oars in row- 
locks; the clanking of the chain-slings, and the boat, with her 
motley-clad 1 life-belted crew, slid off down the slant of a wave. 
For a moment the glare of an electric light lit the faces of the 
men, tugging and straining grimly at their oars; then she van- 
ished, to reappear a moment later on the crest of a sea, and 
disappeared again into the darkness. 

1 Every one near the boat responds to the call "Away Lifeboat's Crew!" 



BARTIMEUS 415 

The Commander on the fore-bridge snatched up a megaphone, 
shouting down-wind — 

"Pull to starboard, cutter! Make for the life-buoy light!" 

The watchers on the after-bridge were peering into the night 
with binoculars and glasses. The A.P. extended an arm and 
forefinger: "There's the life-buoy — there! . . . Now — there! 
D'you see it? You can just see the flare when it lifts on a wave 
... Ah! That's better!" 

The dazzling white beam from a search-light on the fore- 
bridge leaped suddenly into the night. "Now we can see the 
cutter — " the beam wavered a moment and finally steadied. 
" Yes, there they are. ... I say, there 's a devil of a sea running." 

"Ripping sea-boats our Service cutters are," said another, 
staring through his glasses. "They'll live in almost anything; 
but this isn't a dangerous sea. The skipper '11 turn in a minute 
and make a lee for them." 

"Think old Shortie reached the buoy?" 

"Probably swimming about looking for the other fellow, if 
I know anything of him; who did he go in after?" 

"One of the duty sub. — they were securing the anchor or 
something forward, and the bowline slipped " 

"By gad! He's got him! There's the buoy — yes, two of 
them. Good old Shortie. . . . My God! Good old Shortie!" 
The speaker executed a sort of war-dance and trod on the 
Paymaster's toes. 

"When you've quite finished, Snatcher. . . . By the way, 
what about hot-water bottles — blankets — stimulants. . . . 
First aid: come along! 'Assure the patient in a loud voice 
that he is safe.' . . . 'Aspect cheerful but subdued.' ... I 
learned the whole rigmarole once!" 

From the fore upper bridge the Captain was handling his 
ship like a packet-boat. 

" 'Midships — steady! Stop both!" He raised his mouth 
from the voice-pipe to the helmsman, and nodded to the Officer 



416 THE GREATER LOVE 

of the Watch. "She'll do now. . . . The wind '11 take her 
down." 

The Commander leaned over the rail and called the Boat- 
swain 's Mate — 

"Clear lower deck! Man the falls!" 

The ranks of men along the ship's side turned inboard, and 
passed the ropes aft, in readiness to hoist the boat. There were 
three hundred men on the falls, standing by to whisk the cutter 
to the davit-heads like a cockle-shell. 

"They've got 'em — got 'em both!" murmured the deep 
voices; they spat impatiently. "What say, lads? Stamp 
an' go with 'er?" 

"Silence in the battery! Marry!" 

The Commander was leaning over the bridge rails; the Sur- 
geon and two Sick-berth Stewards were waiting by the davits. 
Alongside the cutter was rising and falling on the waves. . . 

" — All right, sir!" The voice of the Coxswain came up as if 
from the deep. They had hooked the plunging boat on some- 
how, and his thumb-nail was a pulp. . . . 

Three hundred pairs of eyes turned towards the fore-bridge. 

"Hoist away!" 

No need for the Boatswain's Mate to echo the order; no need 
for the Petty Officers "With a will, then, lads!" They rushed 
aft in a wild stampede, hauling with every ounce of beef and 
strength in their bodies. The cutter, dripping and swaying, 
her crew fending her off the rolling ship with their stretchers, 
shot up to the davits. 

"High 'nough!" 

The rush stopped like one man. Another pull on the after- 
fall — enough. She was hoisted. "Walk back! . . . Lie to!" 

A tense silence fell upon the crowded battery: the only sound 
that of men breathing hard. A limp figure was seen descending 
the Jacob's ladder out of the boat, assisted by two of the crew. 
Ready hands were outstretched to help, and the next moment 



BARTIMEUS 417 

Willie Sparling, Ordinary Seaman, Official Number 13728, was 
once more on the deck of a man-of-war — a place he never 
expected to see again. 

"Owl" He winced, "Min' my shoulder — it's 'urted. . . ." 
He looked round at the familiar faces lit by the electric lights, 
and jerked his head back at the boat hanging from her davits. 
"'E saved my life — look after 'im. 'E's a . . . e's a — 
bieedin' 'ero, ..." and Willie Sparling, with a broken collar- 
bone, collapsed dramatically enough. 

The Engineer Lieutenant swung himself down on to the upper 
deck and stooped to wring the water from his trousers. The 
Surgeon seized him by the arm — 

"Come along, Shortie — in between the blankets with you!" 

The hero of the moment disengaged his arm and shook 
himself like a terrier. "Blankets be blowed — it's my Middle 
Watch." 

The Surgeon laughed. "Plenty of time for that: it's only 
just after half -past nine. What about a hot toddy?" 

"Lord! I thought I'd been in the water for hours. . . . 

Yes, by Jove! a hot toddy " He paused and looked round, 

his face suddenly anxious. "By the way, . . . any one seen 
a pipe sculling about . . .?" 

Down below the telegraph gongs clanged, and the ship's 
bows swung round on to her course, heading once more for 
England, Home, and Beauty. 



XXX. VIS ET VIR 1 

Victor Hugo 

[It is the spring of 1793. The Claymore, an English corvette manned by 
French Royalists has left the Channel Island of Jersey for the coast of Brittany. 
She is evidently bound on some mission of vast importance. On board is a mysteri- 
ous old man, disguised as a peasant. He is said to be the leader of the royalist's 
faction of La Vendee. As the vessel makes toward the coast of France, the Count 
de Boisberthelot and the Chevalier de la Vieuville discuss the qualifications of the 
peasant, who seems to be a Breton prince, to wage a cruel and relentless war against 
the regicides. They are in the midst of an argument when interrupted by the 
present train of incidents, the end of which conclusively settles the issue for them.] 

I 

Boisberthelot had no time to reply to la Vieuville. La 
Vieuville was suddenly cut short by a cry of despair, and at the 
same time a noise was heard wholly unlike any other sound. 
This cry and the noise came from within the vessel. 

The captain and lieutenant rushed towards the gun-deck, 
but could not get down. All the gunners were pouring up in 
dismay. Something terrible had just happened. 

One of the carronades of the battery, a twenty-four pounder, 
had broken loose. 

This is the most dangerous accident that can possibly take 
place on shipboard. Nothing more terrible can happen to a 
sloop of war in open sea and under full sail. 

A cannon that breaks its moorings suddenly becomes some 
strange, supernatural beast. It is a machine transformed into 
a monster. That short mass on wheels moves like a billiard- 
ball, rolls with the rolling of the ship, plunges with the pitching, 
goes, comes, stops, seems to meditate, starts on its course again, 
shoots like an arrow, from one end of the vessel to the other, 
whirls around, slips away, dodges, rears, bangs, crashes, kills, 

1 Reprinted from Ninety-three. 



VICTOR HUGO 419 

exterminates. It is a battering ram capriciously assaulting 
a wall. Add to this, the fact that the ram is of metal, the wall 
of wood. 

It is matter set free; one might say that this eternal slave 
was avenging itself; it seems as if the total depravity con- 
cealed in what we call inanimate things had escaped, and 
burst forth all of a sudden; it appears to lose patience, and to 
take a strange mysterious revenge; nothing is more relentless 
than this wrath of the inanimate. This enraged lump leaps 
like a panther, it has the clumsiness of an elephant, the nim- 
bleness of a mouse, the obstinacy of an ox, the uncertainty 
of the billows, the zigzag of the lightning, the deafness of the 
grave. It weighs ten thousand pounds, and it rebounds like 
a child's ball. It spins and then abruptly darts off at right 
angles. 

And what is to be done? How put an end to it? A tem- 
pest ceases, a cyclone passes over, a wind dies down, a broken 
mast can be replaced, a leak can be stopped, a fire extinguished, 
but what will become of this enormous brute of bronze? How 
can it be captured? You can reason with a bull-dog, astonish 
a bull, fascinate a boa, frighten a tiger, tame a lion; but you 
have no resource against this monster, a loose cannon. You 
cannot kill it, it is dead; and at the same time it lives. It lives 
with a sinister life which comes to it from the infinite. The 
deck beneath it gives it full swing. It is moved by the ship, 
which is moved by the sea, which is moved by the wind. This 
destroyer is a toy. The ship, the waves, the winds, all play 
with it, hence its frightful animation. What is to be done with 
this apparatus? How fetter this stupendous engine of destruc- 
tion? How anticipate its comings and goings, its returns, 
its stops, its shocks? Any one of its blows on the side of the 
ship may stave it in. How foretell its frightful meanderings? 
It is dealing with a projectile, which alters its mind, which seems 
to have ideas, and changes its direction every instant. How 



420 VIS ET VIR 

check the course of what must be avoided? The horrible cannon 
struggles, advances, backs, strikes right, strikes left, retreats, 
passes by, disconcerts expectation, grinds up obstacles, crushes 
men like flies. All the terror of the situation is in the fluctu- 
ations of the flooring. How fight an inclined plane subject 
to caprices? The ship has, so to speak, in its belly, an imprisoned 
thunderstorm, striving to escape; something like a thunderbolt 
rumbling above an earthquake. 

In an instant the whole crew was on foot. It was the fault 
of the gun captain, who had neglected to fasten the screw-nut 
of the mooring-chain, and had insecurely clogged the four 
wheels of the gun carriage; this gave play to the sole and the 
framework, separated the two platforms, and finally the breech- 
ing. The tackle had given way, so that the cannon was no 
longer firm on its carriage. The stationary breeching, which 
prevents recoil, was not in use at this time. A heavy sea struck 
the port, the carronade insecurely fastened, had recoiled and 
broken its chain, and began its terrible course over the deck. 

To form an idea of this strange sliding, let one imagine a drop 
of water running over glass. 

At the moment when the fastenings gave way, the gunners 
were in the battery. Some in groups, others scattered about, 
busied with the customary work among sailors getting ready 
for a signal for action. The carronade, hurled forward by the 
pitching of the vessel, made a gap in this crowd of men and 
crushed four at the first blow; then sliding back, and shot 
out again as the ship rolled, it cut in two a fifth unfortunate, 
and knocked a piece of the battery against the larboard side 
with such force as to unship it. This caused the cry of dis- 
tress just heard. All the men rushed to the companion-way. 
The gun deck was vacated in a twinkling. 

The enormous gun was left alone. It was given up to itself. 
It was its own master, and master of the ship. It could do 
what it pleased. The whole crew, accustomed to laugh in 



VICTOR HUGO 421 

time of battle, now trembled. To describe the terror is 
impossible. 

Captain Boisberthelot and Lieuteant la Vieuville, although 
both dauntless men, stopped at the head of the companion- 
way, and dumb, pale, and hesitating, looked down on the deck 
below. Some one elbowed past and went down. 

It was their passenger, the peasant, the man of whom they 
had been speaking a moment before. 

Reaching the foot of the companion-way, he stopped. 

II 

The cannon was rushing back and forth on the deck. One 
might have supposed it to be the living chariot of the Apoca- 
lypse. The marine lantern swinging overhead added a dizzy 
shifting of light and shade to the picture. The form of the 
cannon disappeared in the violence of its course, and it looked 
now black in the light, now mysteriously white in the darkness. 

It went on in its destructive work. It had already shat- 
tered four other guns and made two gaps in the side of the 
ship, fortunately above the water-line, but where the water 
would come in, in case of heavy weather. It rushed franti- 
cally against the framework; the strong timbers withstood 
the shock; the curved shape of the wood gave them great 
power of resistance; but they creaked beneath the blows of 
this huge club, beating on all sides at once, with a strange sort 
of ubiquity. The percussions of a grain of shot shaken in a 
bottle are not swifter or more senseless. The four wheels 
passed back and forth over the dead men, cutting them, carv- 
ing them, slashing them, till the five corpses were a score of 
stumps rolling across the deck; the heads of the dead men 
seemed to cry out; streams of blood curled over the deck with 
the rolling of the vessel; the planks, damaged in several places, 
began to gape open. The whole ship was filled with the horrid 
noise and confusion. 



422 VIS ET VIR 

The captain promptly recovered his presence of mind and 
ordered everything that could check and impede the cannon's 
mad course to be thrown through the hatchway down on the 
gun deck — mattresses, hammocks, spare sails, rolls of cordage, 
bags belonging to the crew, and bales of counterfeit assignats, 
of which the corvette carried a large quantity — a character- 
istic piece of English villainy regarded as legitimate warfare. 

But what could these rags do? As nobody dared to go 
below to dispose of them properly, they were reduced to lint 
in a few minutes. 

There was just sea enough to make the accident as bad as 
possible. A tempest would have been desirable, for it might 
have upset the cannon, and with four wheels once in the air 
there would be some hope of getting it under control. Mean- 
while, the havoc increased. 

There were splits and fractures in the masts, which are set 
into the framework of the keel and rise above the decks of 
ships like great, round pillars. The convulsive blows of the 
cannon had cracked the mizzen-mast, and had cut into the 
main-mast. 

The battery was being ruined. Ten pieces out of thirty 
were disabled; the breeches in the side of the vessel were in- 
creasing, and the corvette was beginning to leak. 

The old passenger, having gone down to the gun deck, stood 
like a man of stone at the foot of the steps. He cast a stern 
glance over this scene of devastation. He did not move. It 
seemed impossible to take a step forward. Every movement 
of the loose carronade threatened the ship's destruction. A 
few moments more and shipwreck would be inevitable. 

They must perish or put a speedy end to the disaster; some 
course must be decided on; but what? What an opponent 
was this carronade! Something must be done to stop this 
terrible madness — to capture this lightning — to overthrow 
this thunderbolt. 



VICTOR HUGO 423 

Boisberthelot said to la Vieuville : 

"Do you believe in God, chevalier?" 

La Vieuville replied: "Yes — no. Sometimes." 

"During a tempest?" 

"Yes, and in moments like this." 

"God alone can save us from this," said Boisberthelot. 

Everybody was silent, letting the carronade continue its 
horrible din. 

Outside, the waves beating against the ship responded with 
their blows to the shocks of the cannon. It was like two ham- 
mers alternating. 

Suddenly, in the midst of this inaccessible ring, where the 
escaped cannon was leaping, a man was seen to appear, with 
an iron bar in his hand. He was the author of the catastrophe, 
the captain of the gun, guilty of criminal carelessness, and the 
cause of the accident, the master of the carronade. Having 
done the mischief, he was anxious to repair it. He had seized 
the iron bar in one hand, a tiller-rope with a slip noose in the 
other, and jumped down the hatchway to the gun deck. 

Then began an awful sight; a Titanic scene; the contest 
between gun and gunner; the battle of matter and intelligence, 
the duel between man and the inanimate. 

The man stationed himself in a corner, and with bar and 
rope in his two hands, he leaned against one of the riders, 
braced himself on his legs, which seemed two steel posts, and 
livid, calm, tragic, as if rooted to the deck, he waited. 

He waited for the cannon to pass by him. 

The gunner knew his gun, and it seemed to him as if the 
gun ought to know him. He had lived long with it. How 
many times he had thrust his hand into its mouth! It was 
his own familiar monster. He began to speak to it as if it were 
his dog. 

"Come!" he said. Perhaps he loved it. 

He seemed to wish it to come to him. 



424 VIS ET VTR 

But to come to him was to come upon him. And then he 
would be lost. How could he avoid being crushed? That 
was the question. All looked on in terror. 

Not a breast breathed freely, unless perhaps that of the old 
man, who was alone in the battery with the two contestants, a 
stern witness. 

He might be crushed himself by the cannon. He did not stir. 

Beneath them the sea blindly directed the contest. 

At the moment when the gunner, accepting this frightful 
hand-to-hand conflict, challenged the cannon, some chance 
rocking of the sea caused the carronade to remain for an instant 
motionless and as if stupefied. 

"Come, now!" said the man. It seemed to listen. 

Suddenly it leaped towards him. The man dodged the blow. 

The battle began. Battle unprecedented. Frailty strug- 
gling against the invulnerable. The gladiator of flesh attack- 
ing the beast of brass. On one side, brute force; on the other, 
a human soul. 

All this was taking place in semi-darkness. It was like the 
shadowy vision of a miracle. 

A soul — strange to say, one would have thought the can- 
non also had a soul; but a soul full of hatred and rage. This 
sightless thing seemed to have eyes. The monster appeared to 
lie in wait for the man. One would have at least believed that 
there was craft in this mass. It also chose its time. It was 
a strange, gigantic insect of metal, having or seeming to have 
the will of a demon. For a moment this colossal locust would 
beat against the low ceiling overhead, then it would come 
down on its four wheels like a tiger on its four paws, and begin 
to run at the man. He, supple, nimble, expert, writhed away 
like an adder from all these lightning movements. He avoided 
a collision, but the blows which he parried fell against the 
vessel, and continued their work of destruction. 

An end of broken chain was left hanging to the carronade. 



VICTOR HUGO 425 

This chain had in some strange way become twisted about the 
screw of the cascabel. One end of the chain was fastened to 
the gun-carriage. The other, left loose, whirled desperately 
about the cannon, making all its blows more dangerous. 

The screw held it in a firm grip, adding a thong to a battering- 
ram, making a terrible whirlwind around the cannon, an iron 
lash in a brazen hand. This chain complicated the contest. 

However, the man went on fighting. Occasionally, it was 
the man who attacked the cannon; he would creep along the 
side of the vessel, bar and rope in hand; and the cannon, as 
if it understood, and as though suspecting some snare, would 
flee away. The man, bent on victory, pursued it. 

Such things cannot long continue. The cannon seemed to 
say to itself, all of a sudden, "Come, now! Make an end of 
it!" and it stopped. One felt that the crisis was at hand. 
The cannon, as if in suspense, seemed to have, or really had — 
for to all it was a living being — a ferocious malice prepense. 
It made a sudden, quick dash at the gunner. The gunner 
sprang out of the way, let it pass by, and cried out to it with 
a laugh, "Try it again!" The cannon, as if enraged, smashed 
a carronade on the port side; then, again seized by the invisi- 
ble sling which controlled it, it was hurled to the starboard 
side at the man, who made his escape. Three carronades gave 
way under the blows of the cannon; then, as if blind and not 
knowing what more to do, it turned its back on the man, rolled 
from stern to bow, injured the stern and made a breach in the 
planking of the prow. The man took refuge at the foot of the 
steps, not far from the old man who was looking on. The 
gunner held his iron bar in rest. The cannon seemed to notice 
it, and without taking the trouble to turn around, slid back on 
the man, swift as the blow of an axe. The man, driven against 
the side of the ship, was lost. The whole crew cried out with 
horror. 

But the old passenger, till this moment motionless, darted 



426 VIS ET VIR 

forth more quickly than any of this wildly swift rapidity. 
He seized a package of counterfeit assignats, and, at the risk 
of being crushed, succeeded in throwing it between the wheels 
of the carronade. This decisive and perilous movement could 
not have been made with more exactness and precision by a 
man trained in all the exercises described in Durosel's "Man- 
ual of Gun Practice at Sea." 

The package had the effect of a clog. A pebble may stop 
a log, the branch of a tree turn aside an avalanche. The car- 
ronade stumbled. The gunner, taking advantage of this critical 
opportunity, plunged his iron bar between the spokes of one of 
the hind wheels. The cannon stopped. It leaned forward. 
The man, using the bar as a lever, held it in equilibrium. The 
heavy mass was overthrown, with the crash of a falling bell, 
and the man, rushing with all his might, dripping with per- 
spiration, passed the slipnoose around the bronze neck of the 
subdued monster. 

It was ended. The man had conquered. The ant had 
control over the mastodon; the pigmy had taken the thunder- 
bolt prisoner. 

The mariners and sailors clapped their hands. 

The whole crew rushed forward with cables and chains, and 
in an instant the cannon was secured. 

The gunner saluted the passenger. 

"Sir," he said, "you have saved my life." 

The old man had resumed his impassive attitude, and made 
no reply. m 

The man had conquered, but the cannon might be said to 
have conquered as well. Immediate shipwreck had been 
avoided, but the corvette was not saved. The damage to the 
vessel seemed beyond repair. There were five breaches in her 
sides, one, very large, in the bow; twenty of the thirty car- 
ronades lay useless in their frames. The one which had just 



VICTOR HUGO 427 

been captured and chained again was disabled; the screw of 
the cascabel was sprung, and consequently levelling the gun 
made impossible. The battery was reduced to nine pieces. 
The ship was leaking. It was necessary to repair the damages 
at once, and to work the pumps. 

The gun deck, now that one could look over it, was frightful 
to behold. The inside of an infuriated elephant's cage would 
not be more completely demolished. 

However great might be the necessity of escaping observation, 
the necessity of immediate safety was still more imperative to 
the corvette. They had been obliged to light up the deck 
with lanterns hung here and there on the sides. 

However, all the while this tragic play was going on, the 
crew were absorbed by a question of life and death, and they 
were wholly ignorant of what was taking place outside the 
vessel. The fog had grown thicker; the weather had changed; 
the wind had worked its pleasure with the ship; they were 
out of their course, with Jersey and Guernsey close at hand, 
farther to the south than they ought to have been, and in the 
midst of a heavy sea. Great billows kissed the gaping wounds 
of the vessel — kisses full of danger. The rocking of the sea 
threatened destruction. The breeze had become a gale. A 
squall, a tempest, perhaps, was brewing. It was impossible 
to see four waves ahead. 

While the crew were hastily repairing the damages to the 
gun deck, stopping the leaks, and putting in place the guns 
which had been uninjured in the disaster, the old passenger had 
gone on deck again. 

He stood with his back against the main-mast. 

He had not noticed a proceeding which had taken place on 
the vessel. The Chevalier de la Vieuville had drawn up the 
marines in line on both sides of the main-mast, and at the 
sound of the boatswain's whistle the sailors formed in line, 
standing on the yards. 



428 VIS ET VIR 

The Count de Boisberthelot approached the passenger. 

Behind the captain walked a man, haggard, out of breath, 
his dress disordered, but still with a look of satisfaction on his 
face. 

It was the gunner who had just shown himself so skillful 
in subduing monsters, and who had gained the mastery over 
the cannon. 

The count gave the military salute to the old man in peasant's 
dress, and said to him : 

"General, there is the man." 

The gunner remained standing, with downcast eyes, in 
military attitude. 

The Count de Boisberthelot continued: 

" General, in consideration of what this man has done, do 
you not think there is something due him from his commander?" 

"I think so," said the old man. 

"Please give your orders," replied Boisberthelot. 

"It is for you to give them, you are the captain." 

"But you are the general," replied Boisberthelot. 

The old man looked at the gunner. 

"Come forward," he said. 

The gunner approached. 

The old man turned towards the Count de Boisberthelot, 
took off the cross of Saint-Louis from the captain's coat and 
fastened it on the gunner's jacket. 

"Hurrah!" cried the sailors. 

The marines presented arms. 

And the old passenger pointing to the dazzled gunner, added : 

"Now, have this man shot." 

Dismay succeeded the cheering. 

Then in the midst of the death-like stillness, the old man 
raised his voice and said: 

"Carelessness has compromised this vessel. At this very 
hour, it is perhaps lost. To be at sea is to be in front of the 



VICTOR HUGO 429 

enemy. A ship making a voyage is an army waging war. The 
tempest is concealed, but it is at hand. The whole sea is 
an ambuscade. Death is the penalty of any misdemeanor 
committed in the face of the enemy. No fault is reparable. 
Courage should be rewarded, and negligence punished." 

These words fell one after another, slowly, solemnly, in a 
sort of inexorable metre, like the blows of an axe upon an oak. 

And the man, looking at the soldiers, added: 

"Let it be done." 

The man on whose jacket hung the shining cross of Saint- 
Louis, bowed his head. 

At a signal from Count de Boisberthelot, two sailors went 
below and came back bringing the hammock-shroud; the 
chaplain, who since they sailed had been at prayer in the officers' 
quarters, accompanied the two sailors; a sergeant detached 
twelve marines from the line and arranged them in two files, 
six by six; the gunner, without uttering a word, placed himself 
between the two files. The chaplain, crucifix in hand, advanced 
and stood beside him. " March," said the sergeant, — the 
platoon marched with slow steps to the bow of the vessel. 
The two sailors, carrying the shroud, followed. A gloomy 
silence fell over the vessel. A hurricane howled in the distance. 

A few moments later, a light flashed, a report sounded through 
the darkness, then all was still, and the sound of a body falling 
into the sea was heard. 

The old passenger, still leaning against the mainmast, had 
crossed his arms, and was buried in thought. 

Boisberthelot pointed to him with the forefinger of his left 
hand, and said to la Vieuville in a low voice: 

"La Vendee has a head." 



XXXI. A DEAD ISSUE 1 
Charles Macomb Flandreau 

[Mr. Flandreau, all of whose writings are full of a detailed and amusing observa- 
tion, is one of the very few authors who have been able to put the endlessly recur- 
rent scenes and ideas of undergraduate life into durable form. This story and 
Wellington, in Part II, were written while he was still close to undergraduate affairs 
and were published within two years after he left college. The problem which A 
Dead Issue presents is a singular one, but it is so embedded in the common routine 
of college life that it has a wide significance. It is discussed in the introduction to 
Part V, pages 397-398.] 

Marcus Thorn, instructor in Harvard University, was thirty- 
two years old on the twentieth of June. He looked thirty-five, 
and felt about a hundred. When he got out of bed on his 
birthday morning, and pattered into the vestibule for his mail, 
the date at the top of the Crimson recalled the first of these 
unpleasant truths to him. His mirror — it was one of those 
detestable folding mirrors in three sections — enabled him to 
examine his bald spot with pitiless ease, reproduced his profile 
some forty-five times in quick succession, and made it possible 
for him to see all the way round himself several times at once. 
It was this devilish invention that revealed fact number two 
to Mr. Thorn, while he was brushing his hair and tying his 
necktie. One plus two equalled three, as usual, and Thorn 
felt old and unhappy. But he didn't linger over his dressing 
to philosophise on the evanescence of youth; he didn't even 
murmur, — 

" Alas for hourly change! Alas for all 
The loves that from his hand proud youth lets fall, 
Even as the beads of a told rosary." 

He could do that sort of thing very well; he had been doing it 
steadily for five months. But this morning, the reality of the 

1 Reprinted from Harvard Episodes with the kind permission of Small, Maynard 
and Company, and of the author. 



CHARLES MACOMB FLANDREAU 431 

situation — impressed upon him by the date of his birth — led 
him to adopt more practical measures. What he actually 
did, was to disarrange his hair a little on top, — fluff it up to 
make it look more, — and press it down toward his temples to 
remove the appearance of having too much complexion for the 
size of his head. Then he went out to breakfast. 

Thorn's birthday had fallen, ironically, on one of those rain- 
washed, blue-and-gold days when "all nature rejoices." The 
whitest of clouds were drifting across the bluest of skies when 
the instructor walked out into the Yard; the elms rustled gently 
in the delicate June haze, and the robins hopped across the yel- 
low paths, freshly sanded, and screamed in the sparkling grass. 
All nature rejoiced, and in so doing got very much on Thorn's 
nerves. When he reached his club, he was a most excellent 
person not to breakfast with. 

It was early — half -past eight — and no one except Prescott, 
a sophomore, and Wynne, a junior, had dropped in as yet. 
Wynne, with his spectacles on, was sitting in the chair he always 
sat in at that hour, reading the morning paper. Thorn knew 
that he would read it through from beginning to end, carefully 
put his spectacles back in their case, and then go to the piano 
and play the "Blue Danube." By that time his eggs and 
coffee would be served. Wynne did this every morning, and the 
instructor, who at the beginning of the year had regarded the 
boy's methodical habits at the club as "quaint," — sugges- 
tive, somehow, of the first chapter of "Pendennis," — felt 
this morning that the " Blue Danube " before breakfast 
would be in the nature of a last straw. Prescott, look- 
ing as fresh and clean as the morning, was laughing over 
an illustrated funny paper. He merely nodded to Thorn, 
although the instructor hadn't breakfasted there for many 
months, and called him across to enjoy something. Thorn 
glanced at the paper and smiled feebly. 

"I don't see how you can do it at this hour/' 1 he said; "I 



432 A DEAD ISSUE 

would as soon drink flat champagne." Prescott understood 
but vaguely what the man was talking about, yet he didn't 
appear disturbed or anxious for enlightenment. 

"Ill have my breakfast on the piazza," Thorn said to the 
steward who answered his ring. Then he walked nervously 
out of the room. 

From the piazza he could look over a tangled barrier of lilac 
bushes and trellised grapevines into an old-fashioned garden. 
A slim lady in a white dress and a broad-brimmed hat that 
hid her face was cutting nasturtiums and humming placidly to 
herself. Thorn thought she was a young girl, until she turned 
and revealed the fact that she was not a young girl — that she 
was about his own age. This seemed to annoy him in much the 
same way that the robins and Wynne and the funny paper had, 
for he threw himself into a low steamer-chair where he wouldn 't 
have to look at the woman, and gave himself up to a sort of 
luxurious melancholy. 

In October, nine months before, Thorn had appeared one 
evening in the doorway of the club dining-room after a more or 
less continuous absence of eight years from Cambridge. It was 
the night before college opened, and the dining-room was 
crowded. For an instant there was an uproar of confused 
greetings; then Hay dock and Ellis and Sears Wolcott and 
Wynne — the only ones Thorn knew — pushed back from the 
table and went forward to shake hands with him. Of the nine 
or ten boys still left at the table by this proceeding, those whose 
backs were turned to the new arrival stopped eating and waited 
without looking around, to be introduced to the owner of the 
unfamiliar voice. Their companions opposite paused too, 
some of them laid their napkins on the table. They, however, 
could glance up and see that the newcomer was a dark man of 
thirty years or more. They supposed, correctly, that he was 
an "old graduate" and a member of the club. 

"You don't know any of these people, do you?" said Haydock, 



CHARLES MACOMB FLANDREAU 433 

taking him by the arm; "what a devil of a time you've been 
away from this place." 

"I know that that's a Prescott," laughed the graduate. 
In his quick survey of the table, while the others had been wel- 
coming him back, his eyes had rested a moment on a big fellow 
with light hair. Everybody laughed, because it really was 
a Prescott and all Prescotts were simply more or less happy 
replica of all other Prescotts. "I know your brothers," said 
the graduate, shaking hands with the boy, who had risen. 

"It's Mr. Thorn." Haydock made this announcement loud 
enough to be heard by the crowd. He introduced every one, 
prefixing "Mr." to the names of the first few, but changing to 
given and even nicknames before completing the circuit of the 
table. The humor of some of these last, — "Dink," "Pink," 
and "Mary," for instance, — lost sight of in long established 
usage, suggested itself anew; and the fellows laughed again as 
they made a place for Thorn at the crowded table. 

"It's six years, isn't it?" Haydock asked politely. The 
others had begun to babble cheerfully again of their own affairs. 

"Six! I wish it were; it's eight," answered Thorn. "Eight 
since I left college. But of course I've been here two or three 
times since, — just long enough to make me unhappy at having 
to go back to Europe again." 

"And now you're a great, haughty Ph.D. person, an 'Officer 
of Instruction and Government,' announced in the prospectus 
to teach in two courses," mused Ellis, admiringly. "How do 
you like the idea?" 

"It's very good to be back," said Thorn. He looked about 
the familiar room with a contented smile, while the steward 
bustled in and out to supply him with the apparatus of dining. 

It was, indeed, good to be back. The satisfaction deepened 
and broadened with every moment. It was good to be again 
in the town, the house, the room that, during his life abroad, he 
had grown to look upon more as "home" than any place in 



434 A DEAD ISSUE 

the world; good to come back and find that the place had 
changed so little; good, for instance, when he ordered a bottle 
of beer, to have it brought to him in his own mug, with his name 
and class cut in the pewter, — just as if he had never been 
away at all. This was but one of innumerable little things that 
made Thorn feel that at last he was where he belonged; that he 
had stepped into his old background; that it still fitted. The 
fellows, of course, were recent acquisitions — all of them. 
Even his four acquaintances had entered college long since his 
own time. But the crowd, except that it seemed to him a gather- 
ing decidedly younger than his contemporaries had been at the 
same age, was in no way strange to him. There were the same 
general types of young men up and down the table, and at both 
ends, that he had known in his day. They were discussing the 
same topics, in the same tones and inflections, that had made the 
dinner-table lively in the eighties, — which was not surprising 
when he considered that certain families belong to certain clubs 
at Harvard almost as a matter of course, and that some of the 
■ boys at the table were the brothers and cousins of his own 
classmates. He realized with a glow of sentiment, that he had 
returned to his own people after years of absence in foreign 
lands; a performance whose emotional value was not decreased 
for Thorn by the conviction, just then, that his own people 
were better bred, and better looking, and better dressed than 
any he had met elsewhere. As he looked about at his civilized 
surroundings, and took in, from the general chatter, fragments 
of talk, — breezy and cosmopolitan with incidents of the 
vacation just ended, — he considered his gratification worth 
the time he had been spending among the fuzzy young gentle- 
men of a German university. 

Thorn, like many another college antiquity, might have been 
the occasion of a mutual feeling of constraint had he descended 
upon this undergraduate meal in the indefinite capacity of 
"an old graduate." The ease with which he filled his place at 



CHARLES MACOMB FLANDREAU 435 

the table, and the effortless civility that acknowledged his 
presence there, were largely due to his never having allowed 
his interest in the life of the club to wane during his years away 
from it. He knew the sort of men the place had gone in for, 
and, in many instances, their names as well. Some of his own 
classmates — glad, no doubt, of so congenial an item for their 
occasional European letters — had never failed to write him, 
in diverting detail, of the great Christmas and spring dinners. 
And they, in turn, had often read extracts from Thorn's letters 
to them, when called on to speak at these festivities. More 
than once the graduate had sent, from the other side of the 
world, some doggerel verses, a sketch to be used as a dinner- 
card, or a trifling addition to the club's library or dining-room. 
Haydock and Ellis and Wolcott and Wynne he had met at 
various times abroad. He had made a point of hunting them 
up and getting to know them, with the result that his interest 
had succeeded in preserving his identity; he was not unknown 
to the youngest member of the club. If they didn't actually 
know him, they at least knew of him. Even this crust is sweet 
to the returned graduate whose age is just far enough removed 
from either end of life's measure to make it intrinsically unim- 
portant. 

"What courses do you give?" It was the big Prescott, 
sitting opposite, who asked this. The effort involved a change 
of color. 

"You'd better look out, or you'll have Pink in your class the 
first thing you know," some one called, in a voice of warning, 
from the other end of the table. 

"Yes; he's on the lookout for snaps," said some one else. 

"Then he'd better stay away from my lectures," answered 
Thorn, smiling across at Prescott, who blushed some more at 
this sudden convergence of attention on himself. "They 
say that new instructors always mark hard — just to show 
off." 



436 A DEAD ISSUE 

"I had you on my list before I knew who you were," an- 
nounced another. "I thought the course looked interesting; 
you'll have to let me through." 

" Swipe! swipe!" came in a chorus from around the table. 
This bantering attitude toward his official position pleased 
Thorn, perhaps, more than anything else. It flattered and 
reassured him as to the impression his personality made on 
younger — much younger — men. He almost saw in himself 
the solution of the perennial problem of "How to bring about 
a closer sympathy between instructor and student." 

After dinner Hay dock and Ellis took him from room to room, 
and showed him the new table, the new rugs, the new books, 
ex dono this, that, and the other member. In the library he 
came across one of his own sketches, prettily framed. Some 
of his verses had been carefully pasted into the club scrap- 
book. Ellis and Haydock turned to his class photograph in 
the album, and laughed. It was not until long afterwards that 
he wondered if they had done so because the picture had not 
yet begun to lose its hair. When they had seen everything from 
the kitchen to the attic, they went back to the big room where 
the fellows were drinking their coffee and smoking. Others 
had come in in the interval; they were condoling gayly with 
those already arrived, on the hard luck of having to be in Cam- 
bridge once more. Thorn stood with his back to the fireplace, 
and observed them. 

It was anything but a representative collection of college men. 
There were athletes, it was true, — Prescott was one, — and men 
who helped edit the college papers, and men who stood high in 
their studies, and others who didn't stand anywhere, talking 
and chaffing in that room. But it was characteristic of the 
life of the college that these varied distinctions had in no way 
served to bring the fellows together there. That Ellis would, 
without doubt, graduate with a magna, perhaps a summa cum 
laude, was a matter of interest to no one but Ellis. That 



CHARLES MACOMB FLANDREAU 437 

Prescott had played admirable foot-ball on Soldiers' Field the 
year before, and would shortly do it again, made Prescott 
indispensable to the Eleven, perhaps, but it didn't in the least 
enhance his value to the club. In fact, it kept him away so 
much, and sent him to bed so early, that his skill at the game was, 
at times, almost deplored. That Haydock once in a while 
contributed verses of more than ordinary merit to the Monthly 
and Advocate had nearly kept him out of the club altogether. 
It was the one thing against him, — he had to live it down. 
On the whole, the club, like all of the five small clubs at Har- 
vard whose influence is the most powerful, the farthest reaching 
influence in the undergraduate life of the place, rather prided 
itself in not being a reward for either the meritorious or the 
energetic. It was composed of young men drawn from the 
same station in life, the similarity of whose past associations 
and experience, in addition to whatever natural attractions 
they possessed, rendered them mutually agreeable. The 
system was scarcely broadening, but it was very delightful. 
And as the graduate stood there watching the fellows — brown 
and exuberant after the long vacation — come and go, dis- 
cussing, comparing, or simply fooling, but always frankly 
absorbed in themselves and one another, he could not help 
thinking that however much such institutions had helped to 
enfeeble the class spirit of days gone by, they had a rather 
exquisite, if less diffusive spirit of their own. He liked the 
liveliness of the place, the broad, simple terms of intimacy 
on which every one seemed to be with every one else, the freedom 
of speech and action. Not that he had any desire to bombard 
people with sofa-cushions, as Sears Wolcott happened to be 
doing at that instant, or even to lie on his back in the middle 
of the centre- table with his head under the lamp, and read the 
Transcript, as some one else had done most of the evening; 
but he enjoyed the environment that made such things possible 
and unobjectionable. 



438 A DEAD ISSUE 

"I must make a point of coming here a great deal," reflected 
Thorn. 

The next day college opened. More men enrolled in Thorn's 
class that afternoon than he thought would be attracted by the 
subject he was announced to lecture in on that day of the week. 
Among all the students who straggled, during the hour, into 
the bare recitation-room at the top of Sever, the only ones whose 
individualities were distinct enough to impress themselves 
on Thorn's unpracticed memory were a negro, a stained ivory 
statuette of a creature from Japan, a middle-aged gentleman 
with a misplaced trust in the efficacy of a flowing sandy beard 
for concealing an absence of collar and necktie, Prescott, and 
Haydock. Prescott surprised him. There was a crowd around 
the desk when he appeared, and Thorn didn't get a chance to 
speak to him; but he was pleased to have the boy enrol in his 
course, — more pleased somehow than if there had been any 
known intellectual reason for his having done such a thing; 
more pleased, for instance, than he was when Haydock strolled 
in a moment or two later, although he knew that the senior 
would get from his teachings whatever there was in them. 
Haydock was the last to arrive before the hour ended. Thorn 
gathered up his pack of enrolment cards, and the two left the 
noisy building together. 

" Prescott enrolled just a minute or two before you did," 
said Thorn, as they walked across the Yard. He was a vain 
man in a quiet way. 

"Yes," answered Haydock drily, "he said your course came 
at a convenient hour," he didn't add that, from what he knew 
of Prescott, complications might, under the circumstances, 
be looked for. 

"Shall I see you at dinner?" Thorn asked before they sepa- 
rated. 

"Oh, are you going to eat at the club?" Haydock had 
wondered the night before how much the man would frequent 
the place. 



CHARLES MACOMB FLANDREAU 439 

"Why, yes, I thought I would — for a time at least." No 
other arrangement had ever occurred to Thorn. 

"That's good — I'm glad," said the senior; he asked himself, 
as he walked away, why truthful people managed to lie so easily 
and so often in the course of a day. As a matter of fact, he was 
vaguely sorry for what Thorn had just told him. Haydock 
didn't object to the instructor. Had his opinion been asked, 
he would have said, with truth, that he liked the man. For 
Thorn was intelligent, and what Haydock called " house broken," 
and the two had once spent a pleasant week together in Germany. 
It was not inhospitality, but a disturbed sense of the fitness of 
things that made Haydock regret Thorn's apparent intention 
of becoming so intimate with his juniors. The instructor's 
place, Haydock told himself, was with his academic colleagues, 
at the Colonial Club — or wherever it was that they ate. 

Thorn did dine with the undergraduates that night, and on 
many nights following. It was a privilege he enjoyed for a time 
exceedingly. It amused him, and, after the first few weeks of 
his new life in Cambridge, he craved amusement. For in spite 
of the work he did for the college — the preparing and delivering 
of lectures, the reading and marking of various written tasks, 
and the enlightening, during consultation hours, of long haired, 
long winded seekers after truth, whose cold, insistent passion 
for the literal almost crazed him — he was often profoundly 
bored. He had not been away from Cambridge long enough 
to outlive the conviction, acquired in his Freshman year, that 
the residents of that suburb would prove unexhilarating if in a 
moment of inadvertence he should ever chance to meet any of 
them. But he had been too long an exile to retain a very satis- 
factory grasp on contemporary Boston. Of course he hunted 
up some of his classmates he had known well. Most of them 
were men of affairs in a way that was as yet small enough to 
make them seem to Thorn aggressively full of purpose. They 
were all glad to see him. Some of them asked him to luncheon 



44Q A DEAD ISSUE 

in town at hours that proved inconvenient to one living in 
Cambridge; some of them had wives, and asked him to call 
on them. He did so, and found them to be nice women. But 
this he had suspected before. Two of his classmates were rich 
beyond the dreams of industry. They toiled not, and might 
have been diverting if they hadn't — both of them — hap- 
pened to be unspeakably dull men. For one reason or another, 
he found it impossible to see his friends often enough to get into 
any but a very lame sort of step with their lives. Thorn's 
occasional meetings with them left him melancholy, sceptical 
as to the depth of their natures and his own, cynical as to the 
worth of college friendships — friendships that had depended, 
for their warmth, so entirely on propinquity — on the occasion. 
His most absorbing topics of conversation with the men he 
had once known — his closest ties — were after all issues very 
trivial and very dead. Dinner with a classmate he grew to 
look on as either suicide, or a post mortem. 

It was the club with its fifteen or twenty undergraduate mem- 
bers that went far at first toward satisfying his idle moments. 
Pead issues, other than the personal traditions that added color 
and atmosphere to the everyday life of the place, were given 
no welcome there. The thrill of the fleeting present was enough. 
The life Thorn saw there was, as far as he could tell, more than 
complete with the healthy joy of eating and drinking, of going 
to the play, of getting hot and dirty and tired over athletics, 
and cool and clean and hungry again afterwards. The in- 
structor was entranced by its innocence — its unconscious con- 
tentment. It was so unlike his own life of recent years, he told 
himself; it was so "physical." He liked to stop at the club 
late in the winter afternoons, after a brisk walk on Brattle 
Street. There was always a crowd around the fire at that hour, 
and no room that he could remember had ever seemed so full 
of warmth and sympathy as the big room where the fellows sat, 
at five o'clock on a winter's day, with the curtains drawn and 



CHARLES MACOMB FLANDREAU 441 

the light of the fire flickering up the dark walls and across the 
ceiling. He often dropped in at midnight, or even later. The 
place was rarely quite deserted. Returned " theatre bees" 
came there to scramble eggs and drink beer, instead of tarrying 
with the mob at the Victoria or the Adams House. In the chill 
of the small hours, a herdic load of boys from some dance in 
town would often stream in to gossip and get warm, or to 
give the driver a drink after the long cold drive across the bridge. 
And Thorn, who had not been disposed to gather up and cling 
to the dropped threads of his old interests, who was not wedded 
to his work, who was not sufficient unto himself, enjoyed it all 
thoroughly, unreservedly — for a time. 

For a time only. For as the winter wore on, the inevitable 
happened — or rather the expected didn't happen, which is 
pretty much the same thing after all. Thorn, observant, 
analytical, and — where he himself was not concerned — clever, 
grew to know the fellows better than they knew themselves. 
Before he had lived among them three months, he had appre- 
ciated their respective temperaments, he had taken the measure 
of their ambitions and limitations, he had catalogued their 
likes and dislikes, he had pigeon-holed their weaknesses and 
illuminated their virtues. Day after day, night after night, 
consciously and unconsciously, he had observed them in what 
was probably the frankest, simplest intercourse of their lives. 
And he knew them. 

But they didn 't know him. Nor did it ever occur to them that 
they wanted to or could. They were not seeking the maturer 
companionship Thorn had to give; they were not seeking 
much of anything. They took life as they found it near at hand, 
and Thorn was far, very far away. For them, the niche he occu- 
pied could have been filled by any gentleman of thirty-two 
with a kind interest in them and an affection for the club. To 
him, they were anything that made the world, as he knew it 
just then, interesting and beautiful. Youth, energy, cleanli- 



442 A DEAD ISSUE 

ness were the trinity Thorn worshipped. And they were young, 
strong, and undefiled. Yet, after the first pleasure at being 
back had left him, Thorn was not a happy man, although he had 
not then begun to tell himself so. 

The seemingly unimportant question presented by his own 
name began to worry him a little as the weeks passed into 
months. First names and the absurd sounds men had answered 
to from babyhood were naturally in common use at the club. 
Thorn dropped into the way of them easily, as a matter of course. 
Not to have done so would, in time, have become impossible. 
The fellows would have thought it strange — formal. Yet the 
name of "Marcus" was rarely heard there. Hay dock, once in 
a while, called him that, after due premeditation. Sears 
Wolcott occasionally used it by way of a joke — as if he were 
taking an impertinent liberty, and rather enjoyed doing it. 
But none of the other men ever did. On no occasion had any 
one said " Marcus" absentmindedly, and then looked em- 
barrassed, as Thorn had hoped might happen. It hurt him a 
little always to be called "Thorn"; to be appealed to in the 
capacity of "Mr. Thorn," as he sometimes was by the younger 
members, positively annoyed him. Prescott was the most 
incorrigible in this respect. He had come from one of those 
fitting schools where all speech between master and pupil is 
carried on to a monotonous chant of "Yes, sir," "No, sir," and 
"I think so, sir." He had ideas, or rather habits, — for Pres- 
cott's ideas were few, — of deference to those whose mission it 
was to assist in his education that Thorn found almost impossible 
to displace. For a long time until the graduate laughed 
and asked him not to — he prefixed the distasteful "Mr." to 
Thorn's name. Then, for as long again, he refrained markedly 
from calling him anything. One afternoon he came into the 
club where the instructor was alone, writing a letter, and after 
fussing for a time among the magazines on the table, he man- 
. to say, — 



CHARLES MACOMB FLANDREAU 443 

"Thorn, do you know whether Sears has been here since 
luncheon? " 

Thorn didn't know and he didn't care, but had Prescott 
handed him an appointment to an assistant professor's chair, 
instead of having robbed him a little of what dignity he possessed, 
he would not have been so elated by half. Prescott continued 
to call him "Thorn" after that, but always with apparent effort, 
— as if aware that in doing it he was not living quite up to his 
principles. This trouble with his name might have served Thorn 
as an indication of what his position actually was in the tiny 
world he longed so much to be part of once more. But he was 
not a clever man where he himself was concerned. 

Little things hurt him constantly without opening his eyes. 
For instance, it rarely occurred to the fellows that the instructor 
might care to join them in any of their hastily planned expedi- 
tions to town after dinner. Not that he was ostracised; he 
was simply overlooked. When he did go to the theatre, he 
bought the tickets himself, and asked Prescott or Sears, or 
some of them, to go with him. The occasion invariably lacked 
charm of spontaneity. When he invited any of them to dine 
with him in town, as he often did, they went, if they hadn't 
anything else to do, and seemed to enjoy their dinner. But 
to Thorn these feasts were a series of disappointments. He 
always got up from the table with a sense of having failed 
in something. What? He didn't know — he couldn't have 
told. He was like a man who shoots carefully at nothing, 
and then feels badly because he hits it. He persisted in loitering 
along sunny lanes, and growing melancholy because they led 
nowhere. It was Sears Wolcott who took even the zest of 
anticipation out of Thorn's little dinners in town, by saying to 
the graduate one evening, — 

"What's the point of going to the Victoria for dinner? It's 
less trouble, and a damned sight livelier, to eat out here." 
Sears had what Haydock called, "that disagreeable habit of 



444 A DEAD ISSUE 

hitting promiscuously from the shoulder." The reaction on 
Thorn of all this was at last a dawning suspicion of his own 
unimportance. By the time the midyear examinations came, 
he felt somehow as if he were " losing ground"; he hadn't 
reached the point yet of realizing that he never had had any. 
He used to throw down his work in a fit of depression and con- 
sult his three-sided mirror apprehensively. 

The big Prescott, however, became the real problem, around 
which the others were as mere corollaries. It was he who 
managed, in his "artless Japanese way," as the fellows used to 
call it, to crystallise the situation, to bring it to a pass where 
Thorn's rather unmanly sentimentality found itself confronted 
by something more definite and disturbing than merely the 
vanishing point of youth. Prescott accomplished this very 
simply, by doing the poorest kind of work — no work at all, in 
fact — in the course he was taking from Thorn. Barely, and 
by the grace of the instructor, had he scraped through the first 
examination in November. Since then he had rested calmly, 
like a great monolith, on his laurels. He went to Thorn's lec- 
tures only after intervals of absence that made his going at all 
a farce. He ignored the written work of the course, and the 
reports on outside reading, with magnificent completeness. 
Altogether, he behaved as he wouldn't have behaved had he 
ever for a moment considered Thorn in any light other than that 
of an instructor, an officer of the college, a creature to whom 
deference — servility, almost — was due when he was compelled 
to talk to him, but to whom all obligation ended there. His 
attitude was not an unusual one among college "men" who 
have not outgrown the school idea, but the attendant circum- 
stances were. For Thorn's concern over Prescott's indifference 
to the course was aroused by a strong personal attachment, 
one in which an ordinary professorial interest had nothing to 
do. He smarted at his failure to attract the boy sufficiently 
to draw him to his lectures; yet he looked with a sort of panic 



CHARLES MACOMB FLANDREAU 445 

toward the approaching day when he should be obliged, in all 
conscience, to flunk him in the midyear examination. He 
admired Prescott, as little, intelligent men sometimes do admire 
big, stupid ones. He idealised him, and even went the length, 
one afternoon when taking a walk with Haydock, of telling the 
senior that under Prescott's restful, Olympic exterior he thought 
there lurked a soul. To which Haydock had answered with 
asperity, "Well, I hope so, I'm sure," and let the subject drop. 
Later in the walk, Haydock announced, irrelevantly, and with 
a good deal of vigour, that if he ever made or inherited millions, 
he would establish a chair in the university, call it the 
"Haydock Professorship of Common Sense," and respectfully 
suggest to the President and Faculty that the course be made 
compulsory. 

Thorn would have spoken to the soulful Prescott, — told 
him gently that he didn't seem to be quite in sympathy with 
the work of the course, — ■ if Prescott had condescended to go 
to his lectures in the six or seven weeks between the end of the 
Christmas recess and the examination period. But Prescott 
cut Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, at half-past two o'clock, 
with a regularity that, considered as regularity, was admirable. 
Toward the last, he did drop in every now and then, sit near the 
door, and slip out again before the hour was ended. This 
was just after he had been summoned by the Recorder to the 
Office for "cutting." Thorn never got a chance to speak to 
him. He might have approached the boy at the club; but 
the instructor shrank from taking advantage of his connection 
with that place to make a delicate official duty possible. He 
had all along avoided "shop" there so elaborately, — had made 
so light of it when the subject had come up, — that he couldn't 
bring himself at that late day to arise, viper like, from the hearth- 
stone and smite. A note of warning would have had to be light, 
facetious, and consequently without value, in order not to prove 
a very false and uncalled-for note indeed. The ready cooper- 



446 A DEAD ISSUE 

ation of the Dean, Thorn refrained from calling on; he was far 
from wishing to get Prescott into difficulties. 

By the time the examination day arrived, the instructor was 
in a state of turmoil that in ordinary circumstances would have 
been excessive and absurd. In the case of Thorn, it was half 
pathetic, half contemptible. He knew that in spite of Pres- 
cott's soul (a superabundance of soul is, as a matter of fact, 
a positive hindrance in passing examinations), the boy would 
do wretchedly. To give him an E — the lowest possible mark, 
always excepting, of course, the jocose and sarcastic F — would 
be to bring upon himself Prescott's everlasting anger and 
"despision." Of this Thorn was sure. Furthermore, the mark 
would not tend to make the instructor wildly popular at the 
club; for although everybody was willing to concede that Pres- 
cott was not a person of brilliant mental attainments, he was 
very much beloved. One hears a good deal about the "rough 
justice of boys." Thorn knew that such a thing existed, and 
did not doubt but that, in theory, he would be upheld by the 
members of the club if he gave Prescott an E, and brought the 
heavy hand of the Office down on him. But the justice of boys, 
he reflected, was, after all, rough; it would acknowledge his 
right to flunk Prescott, perhaps, and, without doubt, hate him 
cordially for doing it. Thorn's aversion to being hated was 
almost morbid. 

If, on the other hand, he let the boy through, — gave him, say 
the undeserved and highly respectable mark of C, — well, that 
would be tampering dishonestly with the standards of the college, 
gross injustice to the rest of the students, injurious to the self- 
respect of the instructor, and a great many other objectionable 
things, too numerous to mention. Altogether, Thorn was in 
a "state of mind." He began to understand something of the 
fine line that separates instructor from instructed, on whose 
other side neither may trespass. 

When at length the morning of the examination had come and 



CHARLES MACOMB FLANDREAU 447 

gone, and Thorn was in his own room at his desk with the neat 
bundle of blue-covered books before him, in which the examina- 
tions are written, it was easy enough to make up his mind. He 
knew that the question of flunking or passing Prescott admitted 
of no arguments whatever. The boy's work in the course 
failed to present the tiniest loophole in the way of "extenuating 
circumstances," and Prescott had capped the climax of his 
past record that morning by staying in the examination-room 
just an hour and a quarter of the three hours he was supposed 
to be there. That alone was equivalent to failure in a man of 
Prescott's denseness. Not to give Prescott a simple and un- 
adorned E would be holding the pettiest of personal interests 
higher than one's duty to the college. There was no other way 
of looking at it. And Thorn, whose mind was perfectly clear 
on this point, deliberately extricated Prescott's book from the 
blue pile on his desk, dropped it carelessly — without opening 
it — into the glowing coals of his fireplace, and entered the boy's 
midyear mark in the records as C. 

No lectures are given in the college during the midyears. 
Men who are fortunate enough to finish their examinations early 
in the period can run away to New York, to the country, to Old 
Point Comfort, to almost anywhere that isn't Cambridge, and 
recuperate. Haydock went South. Ellis and Wynne tried a 
walking trip in the Berkshire Hills, and, after two days' flound- 
ering in the mud, waded to the nearest train for a city. Boston 
men went to Boston — except Sears Wolcott and Prescott, 
who disappeared to some wild and inaccessible New England 
hamlet to snow-shoe or spear fish or shoot rabbits; no one could 
with authority say which, as the two had veiled their prepa- 
rations in mystery. So it happened that Thorn didn't see Pres- 
cott for more than a week after he had marked his book. In 
the meantime he had become used to the idea of having done it 
according to a somewhat unconventional system — to put it 
charitably. He passed much of the time in which the fellows 



448 A DEAD ISSUE 

were away, alone; for the few who went to the club, went there 
with note-books under their arms and preoccupied expressions 
in their eyes. They kept a sharp look-out for unexpected 
manoeuvres on the part of the clock, and had a general air of 
having to be in some place else very soon. Thorn, thrown on his 
own resources, had a mild experience of what Cambridge can be 
without a crowd to play with, and came to the conclusion that, 
for his own interest and pleasure in life, he had done wisely 
in not incurring Prescott's ill-will and startling the club in the 
new role of hardhearted, uncompromising pedagogue. The 
insignificant part he played in the lives of the undergraduates 
was far from satisfying; but it was the sort of half a loaf one 
doesn't willingly throw away. By the time Prescott came back, 
Thorn had so wholly accepted his own view of the case that he 
was totally unprepared for the way in which the boy took the 
news of his mark. He met Prescott in the Yard the morning 
college opened again, and stopped to speak to him. He wouldn't 
have referred to the examination — it was enough to know that 
the little crisis had passed — had not Prescott, blushing uneasily, 
and looking over Thorn's shoulder at something across the Yard, 
^said, — 

"I don't suppose you were very much surprised at the way I 
did in the exam, were you?" 

"It might have been better," answered Thorn, seriously. 
"I hope you will do better the second half year. But then, 
it might have been worse; your mark was C." 

Prescott looked at him, a quizzical, startled look; and then 
realizing that Thorn was serious, that there had been nothing 
of the sarcastic in his tone or manner, he laughed rudely in the 
instructor's face. 

"I beg your pardon," he said, as politely as he could, with his 
eyes still full of wonder and laughter; "I had no idea I did 
so well." He turned abruptly and walked away. Thorn 
would have felt offended, if he hadn't all at once been exceed- 



CHARLES MACOMB FLAXDREAU 449 

ingly scared. Prescott's manner was extraordinary for one who, 
as a rule, took even-thing as it came, calmly, unquestioningly. 
His face and his laugh had expressed anything but ordinary 
satisfaction at not having failed. There was something behind 
that unwonted astonishment, something more than mere sur- 
prise at having received what was, after all, a mediocre mark. 
Thorn had mixed enough with human kind to be aware that no 
man living is ever very much surprised in his heart of hearts to 
have his humble efforts in any direction given grade C. Men 
like Prescott, who know but little of the subjects they are 
examined in, usually try to compose vague answers that may, 
like the oracles, be interpreted according to the mood of him 
who reads them. No matter how general or how few Prescott's 
answers had been — Thorn stopped suddenly in the middle of 
the path. The explanation that had come to him took hold of 
him, and like a tightened rein drew him up short. Prescott had 
written nothing. The pages of his blue book had left the exami- 
nation-room as virgin white as when they had been brought in 
and placed on the desk by the proctor. There was no other 
explanation possible, and the instructor tingled all over with 
the horrid sensation of being an unspeakable fool. He turned 
quickly to go to University Hall; he meant to have Prescott's 
mark changed at once. But Prescott, at that moment, was 
bounding up the steps of University, two at a time. He was 
undoubtedly on his way to the Office to verify what Thorn 
had just told him. Thorn walked rapidly to his entry in 
Holworthy, although he had just come from there. Then, 
with short, nervous steps, he turned back again, left the Yard, 
and hurried in aimless haste up North Avenue. He had been 
an ass, — a bungling, awful ass, — he told himself over and 
over again. And that was about as coherent a meditation as 
Mr. Thorn was able to indulge in for some time. Once the idea 
of pretending that he had made a mistake did suggest itself for 
a moment; but that struck him as wild, impossible. It would 



450 A DEAD ISSUE 

have merely resulted in forcing the Office to regard him 
stupid and careless, and, should embarrassing questions arise, 
he no longer had Prescott's book with which to clear himself. 
More than that, it would give Prescott reason to believe him an 
underhand trickster. The boy now knew him to be an example 
of brazen partiality ; there was no point in incurring even harsher 
criticism. Thorn tried to convince himself, as he hurried along 
the straight, hideous highway, that perhaps he was wrong — 
that Prescott hadn't handed in a perfectly blank book. If 
only he could have been sure of that, he would have risked the 
bland assertion that the boy had stumbled on more or less in- 
telligent answers to the examination questions, without perhaps 
knowing it himself. This, practically, was the tone he had 
meant to adopt all along. But he couldn't be sure, and, unfor- 
tunately, the only person who could give information as to what 
was or wasn't in the book, was Prescott. But Prescott had 
given information of the most direct and convincing kind. 
That astounded look and impertinent laugh had as much as 
said: — 

"Well, old swipe, what's your little game? What do you 
expect to get by giving a good mark to a man who wasn't 
able to answer a single question?" And Thorn knew it. At 
first he was alarmed at what he had done. He could easily 
see how such a performance, if known, might stand in the light 
of his reappointment to teach in the college, even if it didn't 
eject him at once. But before he returned to his room, after 
walking miles, he scarcely knew where, fear had entirely given 
way to shame, — an over-powering shame that actually made 
the man sick at his stomach. It wasn't as if he had committed 
a man's fault in a world of men where he would be comfortably 
judged and damned by a tribunal he respected about as much as 
he respected himself. He had turned himself inside out before 
the clear eyes of a lot of boys, whose dealings with themselves 
and one another were like so many shafts of white light in an 



CHARLES MACOMB FLANDREAU 451 

unrefracting medium. He had let them know what a weak, 
characterless, poor thing he was, by holding himself open to a 
bribe, showing himself willing to exchange, for the leavings of 
their friendships, something he was bound in honor to give only 
when earned, prostituting his profession that they might continue 
to like him a little, tolerate his presence among them. And he 
was one whom the college had honored by judging worthy to 
stand up before young men and teach them. It was really 
very sickening. 

Thorn couldn't bring himself to go near the club for some days. 
He knew, however, as well as if he had been present, what had 
probably happened there in the meanwhile. Prescott had told 
Haydock and Wolcott, and very likely some of the others, the 
story of his examination. They had laughed at first, as if it had 
been a good joke in which Prescott had come out decidedly 
ahead; then Haydock had said something — Thorn could hear 
him saying it — that put the matter in a pitilessly true light, 
and the others had agreed with him. They usually did in the 
end. It took all the " nerve" Thorn had to show himself 
again. 

But when he had summoned up enough courage to drop in at 
the club late one evening, he found every one's manner toward 
him pretty much as it always had been; yet he could tell in- 
stinctively, as he sat there, who had and who hadn't heard 
Prescott's little anecdote. Wolcott knew; he called Thorn, 
" Marcus," with unnecessary gusto, and once or twice laughed his 
peculiarly irritating laugh when there was nothing, as far as 
Thorn could see, to laugh at. Haydock knew; Thorn winced 
under the cool speculative stare of the senior's grey eyes. Wynne 
knew; although Thorn had no more specific reason for believing 
so, than that the boy seemed rather more formidably bespec- 
tacled than usual. Several of the younger fellows also knew; 
Thorn knew that they knew; he couldn't stand it. When the 
front door slammed after him on his way back to his room, he 



452 A DEAD ISSUE 

told himself that, as far as he was concerned, it had slammed 
for the last time. 

He was very nearly right. He would have had to be a pachy- 
derm compared to which the " blood- sweating behemoth of 
Holy Writ" is a mere satin-skinned invalid, in order to have 
brazened out the rest of the year on the old basis. He couldn't 
go to the club and converse on base-ball and the " musical 
glasses," knowing that the fellows with whom he was talking 
were probably weighing the pros and cons of taking his courses 
next year, and getting creditable marks in them, without doing 
a stroke of work. He couldn't face that "rough justice of boys " 
that would sanction the fellows making use of him, and consider- 
ing him a pretty poor thing, at the same time. So he stayed 
away; he didn't go near the place through March and April 
and May. When his work didn't call him elsewhere, he stayed 
in his room and attempted to live the life of a scholar, — an 
existence for which he was in every conceivable way unfitted. 
For a time he studied hard out of books; but the most profitable 
knowledge he acquired in his solitude was the great deal he 
learned about himself. He tried to write. He had always 
thought it in him to "write something," if he ever should find 
the necessary leisure. But the play he began amounted to 
no more than a harmless pretext for discoursing in a disillusioned 
strain on Life and Art in the many letters he wrote to people 
he had known abroad, — people, for whom, all at once, he con- 
ceived a feeling of intimacy that no doubt surprised them when 
they received his letters. His volume of essays was never 
actually written, but the fact that he was hard at work on it 
served well as an answer to: — ■ 

"Why the devil don't we ever see you at the club nowadays?" 

For the fellows asked him that, of course, when he met them 

in the Yard or in the electric cars; and Haydock tarried once 

or twice after his lecture and hoped politely that he was coming 

to the next club dinner. He wasn't at the next club dinner, 



CHARLES MACOMB FLANDREAU 453 

however, nor the next, nor the next. Haydock stopped remind- 
ing him of them. The club had gradually ceased to have any 
but a spectacular interest for Thorn. His part at a dinner there 
would be — and, since his return, always had been — that of 
decorous audience in the stalls, watching a sprightly farce. 
The club didn't insist on an audience, so Thorn's meetings with 
its members were few. He saw Haydock and Prescott, in a 
purely official way, more than any of them. Strangely enough, 
Prescott seemed to be trying to do better in Thorn's course. 
He came to the lectures as regularly as he had avoided them 
before the midyears. He handed in written work of such 
ingenious unintelligence that there was no question in Thorn's 
mind as to the boy 's having conscientiously evolved it unaided. 
The instructor liked the spirit of Prescott's efforts, although 
it was a perpetual " rubbing in" of the memory of his own 
indiscretion; it displayed a pretty understanding of noblesse 



The second half year was long and dreary and good for Thorn. 
It set him down hard, — so hard that when he collected himself 
and began to look about him once more, he knew precisely where 
he was — which was something he hadn't known until then. 
He was thirty- two years old; he looked thirty-five, and he felt 
a hundred, to begin with. He wasn't an undergraduate, and 
he hadn't been one for a good many years. He still felt that he 
loved youth and sympathized with its every phase, — from 
its mindless gambolings to its preposterous maturity. But he 
knew now that it was with the love and sympathy of one who had 
lost it. He had learned, too, that when it goes, it bids one a 
cavalier adieu, and takes with it what one has come to regard as 
one 's rights, — like a saucy house-maid departing with the 
spoons. He knew that he had no rights; he had forfeited them 
by losing some of his hair. He wouldn 't get any of them back 
again until he had lost all of it. He was the merest speck on 
the horizon of the fellows whom he had, earlier in the year, 



454 A DEAD ISSUE 

tried to know on a basis of equality, — a speck too far away, 
too microscopic even to annoy them. If he had only known 
it all along, he told himself, how different his year might have 
been. He wouldn't have squandered the first four months of 
it, for one thing, in a stupid insistence on a relation that must 
of necessity be artificial — unsatisfying. He wouldn't have 
spent the last five of it in coming to his senses. He wouldn't 
have misused all of it in burning — or at least in allowing to 
fall into a precarious state of unrepair — the bridges that led 
back to the friends of his own age and time. 

"I have learned more than I have taught, this year," thought 
Thorn. 

To-day was Thorn's birthday. Impelled by a tender, tepid 
feeling of self-pity the instructor had come once more to the club 
to look at it and say good-bye before leaving Cambridge. He 
would have liked to breakfast on the piazza and suffer luxu- 
riously alone. But just at the moment he was beginning to feel 
most deeply, Sears Wolcott appeared at the open French 
window, and said he was "Going to eat out there in the land- 
scape too." So Thorn, in spite of himself, had to revive. 

"What did you think of the Pudding show last night?" 
began Sears. Talk with him usually meant leading questions 
and their simplest answers. 

"It was very amusing — very well done," said Thorn. What 
was the use, he asked himself, of drawing a cow-eyed stare from 
Wolcott by saying what he really thought — that Strawberry 
Night at the Pudding had been " exuberant," "noisy," "in- 
tensely young." 

"I saw you after it was over," Sears went on; "why didn't 
you buck up with the old grads around the piano? You looked 
lonely." 

"I was lonely," answered Thorn, truthfully this time. 

"Where were your classmates? There was a big crowd out." 



CHARLES MACOMB FLANDREAU 455 

"My classmates? Oh, they were there, I suppose. I haven't 
seen much of them this year." 

Wolcott's next question was: — 

"Why the devil can't we have better strawberries at this club, 
I wonder? Where's the granulated sugar? They know I 
never eat this damned face powder on anything." He called 
loudly for the steward, and Thorn went on with his breakfast 
in silence. After Sears had been appeased with granulated sugar, 
he asked: — 

" Going to be here next year?" 

"I've been reappointed; but I think I shall live in town. 
Why do you ask?" 

"Oh, nothing — I was thinking I might take your courses. 
What mark is Prescott going to get for the year?" 

Thorn looked up to meet Wolcott's eyes unflinchingly; but 
the boy was deeply absorbed in studying the little air bubbles 
on the surface of his coffee. 

"I don't know what mark he'll get. I haven't looked at his 
book yet," said Thorn. Sears remarked "Oh!" and laughed 
as he submerged the bubbles with a spoon. It was unlike him 
not to have said, "You do go through the formality of reading 
his books then?" 

Prescott and Wynne joined them. They chattered gaily 
with Wolcott about nothing out there on the piazza, and watched 
the slim lady on the other side of the nodding lilac bushes cut 
nasturtiums. Thorn listened to them, and looked at them, 
and liked them; but he couldn't be one of them, even for the 
moment. He couldn't babble unpremeditately about nothing, 
because he had forgotten how it was done. So, in a little while, 
he got up to leave them. He had to mark some examination 
books and pack his trunks and go abroad, he told them. He said 
good-bye to Prescott and Wolcott and Wynne and some others 
who had come in while they were at breakfast, and hoped they 
would have "a good summer." They hoped the same to him. 



456 A DEAD ISSUE 

As he strolled back to his room with the sounds of their voices 
in his ears, but with no memory of what they had been saying, 
he wondered if, after all, they hadn't from the very first bored 
him just a little; if his unhappiness — his sense of failure when 
he talked to young people — didn't come from the fact that they 
commended themselves to his affections rather than to his in- 
tellect. Thorn was a vain man in a quiet way. 

Prescott's final examination book certainly didn't commend 
itself to his intellect. It was long, and conscientious, and 
quite incorrect from cover to cover. The instructor left it until 
the last. He almost missed his train in deciding upon its mark. 



XXXII. THE CAPTAIN'S VICES 1 
Francois Coppee 

[We have all of us seen village "characters" frittering away their useful possi- 
bilities in village loafing places and pool rooms. The genial futility of this sort of 
existence has impressed all of us. To make a story of this feature of daily life, 
that will at the same time preserve and expose its geniality, requires an unusual 
amount of logical imagination. The problem which Captain Mercadier faces is 
no more interesting than the problem of how he could be reformed and not spoilt 
in the process, which the author's imagination had to face. To be told that the 
plot consists of the adoption by Captain Mercadier, the bon viveur, of a forlorn 
crippled child sounds a trifle melodramatic. Whereas the wonderfully delicate 
and gradual explanation of this emphasizes not the strangeness of the Captain's 
action, but its inevitability. To accentuate and at the same time to make conso- 
nant — that is the art of composing the incidents of life by means of the imagination.]] 

It is of no importance, the name of the little provincial city 
where Captain Mercadier — twenty-six years of service, twenty- 
two campaigns, and three wounds — installed himself when he 
was retired on a pension. 

It was quite like all those other little villages which solicit 
without obtaining it a branch of the railway; just as if it were not 
the sole dissipation of the natives to go every day, at the same 
hour, to the Place de la Fontaine to see the diligence come in at 
full gallop, with its gay cracking of the whips and clang of bells. 

It was a place of three thousand inhabitants — ambitiously 
denominated souls in the statistical tables — and was exceed- 
ingly proud of its title of chief city of the canton. It had ram- 
parts planted with trees, a pretty river with good fishing, a 
church of the charming epoch of the flamboyant Gothic, dis- 
graced by a frightful station of the cross, brought directly from 
the quarter of Saint Sulpice. Every Monday its market was gay 
with great red and blue umbrellas, and countrymen filled its 

1 Reprinted from Ten Tales by Coppee (translated by Walter Learned) with the 
kind permission of Harper and Brothers. 



458 THE CAPTAIN'S VICES 

streets in carts and carriages. But for the rest of the week it re- 
tired with delight into that silence and solitude which made it so 
dear to its rustic population. Its streets were paved with cobble- 
stones; through the windows of the ground-floor one could see 
samplers and wax-flowers under glass domes, and, through the 
gates of the gardens, statuettes of Napoleon in shell-work. The 
principal inn was naturally called the Shield of France; and the 
town-clerk made rhymed acrostics for the ladies of society. 

Captain Mercadier had chosen that place of retreat for the 
simple reason that he had been born there, and because, in his 
noisy childhood, he had pulled down the signs and plugged up 
the bell-buttons. He returned there to find neither relations, 
nor friends, nor acquaintances; and the recollections of his 
youth recalled only the angry faces of shop-keepers who shook 
their fists at him from the shop-doors, a catechism which threat- 
ened him with hell, a school which predicted the scaffold, and, 
finally, his departure for his regiment, hastened by a paternal 
malediction. 

For the Captain was not a saintly man; the old record of his 
punishment was black with days in the guard-house inflicted 
for breaches of discipline, absences from roll-calls, and nocturnal 
uproars in the mess-room. He had often narrowly escaped 
losing his stripes as a corporal or a sergeant, and he needed 
all the chance, all the license of a campaigning life, to gain his 
first epaulet. Firm and brave soldier, he had passed almost all 
his life in Algiers at that time when our foot soldiers wore the 
high shako, white shoulder-belts and huge cartridge-boxes. 
He had had Lamoriciere for commander. The Due de Nemours, 
near whom he received his first wound, had decorated him, 
and when he was sergeant-major, Pere Bugrand had called him 
by his name and pulled his ears. He had been a prisoner of 
Abd-el-Kader, bearing the scar of a yataghan stroke on his neck, 
of one ball in his shoulder and another in his chest; and not- 
withstanding absinthe, duels, debts of play, and almond-eyed 



FRANCOIS COPPfiE 459 

Jewesses, he fairly won, with the point of the bayonet and 
sabre, his grade of captain in the First Regiment of Sharp- 
shooters. 

Captain Mercadier — twenty-six years of service, twenty- 
two campaigns, and three wounds — had just retired on his 
pension, not quite two thousand francs, which, joined to the two 
hundred and fifty francs from his cross, placed him in that estate 
of honorable penury which the State reserves for its old 
servant?. 

His entry into his natal city was without ostentation. He 
arrived one morning on the imperiale of the diligence, chewing 
an extinguished cigar, and already on good terms with the 
conductor, to whom, during his journey, he had related the pas- 
sage of the Porte de Fer; full of indulgence, moreover, for the 
distractions of his auditor, who often interrupted the recital by 
some oath or epithet addressed to the off mare. When the 
diligence stopped he threw on the sidewalk his old valise, covered 
with railway placards as numerous as the changes of garrison 
that its proprietor had made, and the idlers of the neighborhood 
were astonished to see a man with a decoration — a rare thing 
in the province — offer a glass of wine to the coachman at the 
bar of an inn near by. 

He installed himself at once. In a house in the outskirts, 
where two captive cows lowed, and fowls and ducks passed and 
repassed through the gate-way, a furnished chamber was to 
let. Preceded by a masculine-looking woman, the Captain 
climbed the stair- way with its great wooden balusters, perfumed 
by a strong odor of the stable, and reached a great tiled room, 
whose walls were covered with a bizarre paper representing, 
printed in blue on a white background and repeated infinitely, 
the picture of Joseph Poniatowski crossing the Elster on his 
horse. This monotonous decoration, recalling nevertheless our 
military glories, fascinated the Captain without doubt, for, 
without concerning himself with the uncomfortable straw 



460 THE CAPTAIN'S VICES 

chairs, the walnut furniture, or the little bed with its yellowed 
curtain, he took the room without hesitation. A quarter of 
an hour was enough to empty his trunk, hang up his clothes, put 
his boots in a corner, and ornament the wall with a trophy 
composed of three pipes, a sabre, and a pair of pistols. After 
a visit to the grocer's, over the way, where he bought a pound 
of candles and a bottle of rum, he returned, put his purchase 
on the mantle-shelf, and looked around him with an air of 
perfect satisfaction. And then, with the promptitude of the 
camp, he shaved without a mirror, brushed his coat, cocked 
his hat over his ear, and went for a walk in the village in search 
of a cafe. 

It was an inveterate habit of the Captain to spend much of his 
time at a cafe. It was there that he satisfied at the same time 
the three vices which reigned supreme in his heart — tobacco, 
absinthe, and cards. It was thus that he passed his life, and 
he could have drawn a plan of all the places where he had ever 
been stationed by their tobacco shops, cafes, and military clubs. 
He never felt himself so thoroughly at ease as when sitting on a 
worn velvet bench before a square of green cloth near a heap 
of beer-mugs and saucers. His cigar never seemed good unless 
he struck his match under the marble of the table, and he never 
failed, after hanging his hat and his sabre on a hat-hook and 
settling himself comfortably, by unloosing one or two buttons 
of his coat, to breathe a profound sigh of relief, and exclaim: 

"That is better!" 

His first care was, therefore, to find an establishment which 
he could frequent, and after having gone around the village with- 
out finding anything that suited him, he stopped at last to re- 
gard with the eye of a connoisseur the Cafe Prosper, situated 
at the corner of the Place du Marche and the Rue de la Pavoisse. 

It was not his ideal. Some of the details of the exterior were 
too provincial: the waiter, in his black apron, for example, 
the little stands in their green frames, the footstools, and the 



FRANCOIS COPPfiE 461 

wooden tables covered with waxed cloth. But the interior 
pleased the Captain. He was delighted upon his entrance by the 
sound of the bell which was touched by the fair and fleshy dame 
de comptoir, in her light dress, with a poppy-colored ribbon in 
her sleek hair. He saluted her gallantly, and believed that she 
sustained with sufficient majesty her triumphal place between 
two piles of punch-bowls properly crowned by billiard-balls. 
He ascertained that the place was cheerful, neat, and strewn 
evenly with yellow sand. He walked around it, looking at 
himself in the glasses as he passed; approved the panels where 
guardsmen and amazons were drinking champagne in a land- 
scape rilled with red holly-hocks; called for his absinthe, smoked, 
found the divan soft and the absinthe good, and was indulgent 
enough not to complain of the flies that bathed themselves in 
his glass with true rustic familiarity. 

Eight days later he had become one of the pillars of the Cafe 
Prosper. 

They soon learned his punctual habits and anticipated his 
wishes, while he, in turn, lunched with the patrons of the place — 
a valuable recruit for those who haunted the cafe, folks oppressed 
by the tedium of a country life, for whom the arrival of that new- 
comer, past master in all games, and an admirable raconteur 
of his wars and his loves, was a true stroke of good-fortune. 
The Captain himself was delighted to tell his stories to folks 
who were still ignorant of his repertoire. There were fully 
six months before him in which to tell of his games, his feats, 
his battles, the retreat of Constantine, the capture of Bou- 
Maza, and the officers' receptions with the concomitant in- 
toxication of rum-punch. 

Human weakness! He was by no means sorry, on his part, 
to be something of an oracle; he from whom the sub-lieu tenants, 
newcomers at Saint-Cyr, fled dismayed, fearing his long stories. 

His usual auditors were the keeper of the cafe, a stupid and 
silent beer-cask, always in his sleeved vest, and remarkable 



462 THE CAPTAIN'S VICES 

only for his carved pipe; the bailiff, a scoffer, dressed invariably 
in black, scorned for his inelegant habit of carrying off what 
remained of his sugar; the town-clerk, the gentleman of acrostics, 
a person of much amiability and a feeble constitution, who sent 
to the illustrated journals solutions of engimas and rebuses; 
and lastly, the veterinary surgeon of the place, the only one who, 
from his position of atheist and democrat, was allowed to con- 
tradict the Captain. This practitioner, a man with tufted 
whiskers and eye-glasses, presided over the radical committee 
of electors, and when the cure took up a little collection among 
his devotees for the purpose of adorning his church with some 
frightful red and gilded statues, denounced, in a letter to the 
Steele, the cupidity of the Jesuits. 

The Captain having gone out one evening for some cigars 
after an animated political discussion, the aforesaid veterinary 
grumbled to himself certain phrases of heavy irritation con- 
cerning " coming to the point," and "a mere fencing-master," 
and "cutting a figure." But as the object of these vague men- 
aces suddenly returned, whistling a march and beating time with 
his cane, the incident was without result. 

In short, the group lived harmoniously together, and willingly 
permitted themselves to be presided over by the new-comer, 
whose white beard and martial bearing were quite impressive. 
And the small city, proud of so many things, was also proud of 
its retired Captain. 

Perfect happiness exists nowhere, and Captain Mercadier, 
who believed that he had found it at the Cafe Prosper, soon 
recovered from his illusion. 

For one thing, on Mondays, the market-day, the Cafe Prosper 
was untenantable. 

From early morning it was overrun with truck-peddlers, 
farmers, and poultrymen. Heavy men with coarse voices, red 
necks, and great whips in their hands, wearing blue blouses 
and otter-skin caps, bargaining over their cups, stamping 



FRANCOIS COPPfiE 463 

their feet, striking their fists, familiar with the servant, and 
bungling at billiards. 

When the Captain came, at eleven o'clock, for his first glass 
of absinthe, he found this crowd gathered, and already half- 
drunk, ordering a quantity of lunches. His usual place was 
taken, and he was served slowly and badly. The bell was con- 
tinually sounding, and the proprietor and the waiter, with nap- 
kins under their arms, were running distractedly hither and 
thither. In short, it was an ill-omened day, which upset his 
entire existence. 

Now, one Monday morning, when he was resting quietly 
at home, being sure that the cafe would be much too full and 
busy, the mild radiance of the autumn sun persuaded him to go 
down and sit upon the stone seat by the side of the house. He 
was sitting there, depressed and smoking a damp cigar, when 
he saw coming down the end of the street — it was a badly 
paved lane leading out into the country — a little girl of eight 
or ten, driving before her a half-dozen geese. 

As the captain looked carelessly at the child, he saw that 
she had a wooden leg. 

There was nothing paternal in the heart of the soldier. It 
was that of a hardened bachelor. In former days, in the streets 
of Algiers, when the little begging Arabs pursued him with their 
importunate prayers, the Captain had often chased them away 
with blows from his whip; and on those rare occasions when 
he had penetrated the nomadic household of some comrade 
who was married and the father of a family, he had gone away 
cursing the crying babies and awkward children who had touched 
with their greasy hands the gilding on his uniform. 

But the sight of that particular infirmity, which recalled to 
him the sad spectacle of wounds and amputations, touched, 
on that account, the old soldier. He felt almost a constriction 
of the heart at the sight of that sorry creature, half-clothed 
in her tattered petticoats and old chemise, bravely running 



464 THE CAPTAIN'S VICES 

along behind her geese, her bare foot in the dust, and limping 
on her ill-made wooden stump. 

The geese, recognizing their home, turned into the poultry 
yard, and the little one was about to follow them when the 
Captain stopped her with this question : 

"Eh! little girl, what's your name?" 

"Pierette, monsieur, at your service," she answered, looking 
at him with her great black eyes, and pushing her disordered 
locks from her forehead. 

"You live in this house, then? I haven't seen you before." 

"Yes, I know you pretty well, though, for I sleep under the 
stairs, and you wake me up every evening when you come home." 

"Is that so, my girl? Ah, well, I must walk on my toes in 
future. How old are you?" 

"Nine, monsieur, come All-Saints day." 

"Is the landlady here a relative of yours?" 

"No, monsieur, I am in service." 

"And they give you?" 

"Soup, and a bed under the stairs." 

"And how came you to be lame like that, my poor little one?" 

"By the kick of a cow when I was five." 

"Have you father or mother?" 

The child blushed under her sunburned skin. "I came from 
the Foundling Hospital," she said briefly. Then, with an awk- 
ward courtesy, she passed limping into the house, and the Cap- 
tain heard, as she went away on the pavement of the court, 
the hard sound of the little wooden leg. 

Good heavens! he thought, mechanically walking towards 
his cafe, that's not at all the thing. A soldier, at least, they 
pack off to the Invalides, with the money from his medal to keep 
him in tobacco. For an officer, they fix up a collectorship, 
and he marries somewhere in the provinces. But this poor 
girl, with such an infirmity, — that's not at all the thing! 

Having established in these terms the injustice of fate, the 



FRANCOIS COPPfiE 465 

Captain reached the threshold of his dear cafe, but he saw there 
such a mob of blue blouses, he heard such a din of laughter and 
click of billiard-balls, that he returned home in very bad humor. 

His room — it was, perhaps, the first time that he had spent 
in it several hours of the day — looked rather shabby. His 
bed-curtains were the color of an old pipe. The fireplace was 
heaped with old cigar-stumps, and one could have written his 
name in the dust on the furniture. He contemplated for some 
time the walls where the sublime lancer of Leipsic rode a hun- 
dred times to a glorious death. Then, for an occupation, he 
passed his wardrobe in review. It was a lamentable series of 
bottomless pockets, socks full of holes, and shirts without 
buttons. 

"I must have a servant," he said. 

Then he thought of the little lame girl. 

"That's what I'll do. I'll hire the next little room; winter 
is coming, and the little thing will freeze under the stairs. She 
will look after my clothes and my linen and keep the barracks 
clean. A valet, how's that?" 

But a cloud darkened the comfortable picture. The Captain 
remembered that quarter-day was still a long way off, and that 
his account at the Cafe Prosper was assuming alarming pro- 
portions. 

"Not rich enough," he said to himself. "And in the mean- 
time they are robbing me down there. That is positive. The 
board is too high, and that wretch of a veterinary plays bezique 
much too well. I have paid his way now for eight days. Who 
knows? Perhaps I had better put the little one in charge of 
the mess, soup au cafe in the morning, stew at noon, and ragout 
every evening — campaign life, in fact. I know all about that. 
Quite the thing to try." 

Going out he saw at once the mistress of the house, a great 
brutal peasant, and the little lame girl, who both, with pitch- 
forks in their hands, were turning over the dung-heap in the yard. 



466 THE CAPTAIN'S VICES 

"Does she know how to sew, to wash, to make soup?" he asked 
brusquely. 

"Who — Pierette? Why?" 

"Does she know a little of all that?" 

"Of course. She came from an asylum where they learn 
how to take care of themselves." 

"Tell me, little one," added the Captain, speaking to the 
child, "I am not scaring you — no? Well, my good woman, 
will you let me have her? I want a servant." 

"If you will support her." 

"Then that is finished. Here are twenty francs. Let her 
have to-night a dress and a shoe. To-morrow we'll arrange 
the rest." 

And, with a friendly tap on Pierette's cheek, the Captain 
went off, delighted that everything was concluded. Possibly 
he thought he would have to cut off some glasses of beer and 
absinthe, and be cautious of the veterinary's skill at bezique. 
But that was not worth speaking of, and the new arrangement 
would be quite the thing. 

Captain, you are a coward! 

Such was the apostrophe with which the caryatides of the 
Cafe Prosper hereafter greeted the Captain, whose visits became 
rarer day by day. 

For the poor man had not seen all the consequences of his good 
action. The suppression of his morning absinthe had been 
sufficient to cover the modest expense of Pierette's keeping, 
but how many other reforms were needed to provide for the un- 
foreseen expenses of his bachelor establishment! Full of 
gratitude, the little girl wished to prove it by her zeal. Already 
the aspect of his room was changed. The furniture was dusted 
and arranged, the fireplace cleaned, the floor polished, and spiders 
no longer spun their webs over the deaths of Poniatowski in 
the corner. When the Captain came home the inviting odor 
of cabbage-soup saluted him on the staircase, and the sight 



FRANCOIS COPPfiE 467 

of the smoking plates on the coarse but white table-cloth, with 
a bunch of flowers and polished table-ware, was quite enough 
to give him a good appetite. Pierette profited by the good 
humor of her master to confess some of her secret ambitions. 
She wanted andirons for the fireplace, where there was now 
always a fire burning, and a mould for the little cakes that she 
knew how to make so well. And the Captain, smiling at the 
child's requests, but charmed with the home-like atmosphere 
of his room, promised to think of it, and on the morrow replaced 
his Londres by cigars for a sou each, hesitated to offer five 
points at ecarte, and refused his third glass of beer or his second 
glass of chartreuse. 

Certainly the struggle was long; it was cruel. Often, when 
the hour came for the glass that was denied him by economy, 
when thirst seized him by the throat, the Captain was forced 
to make an heroic effort to withdraw his hand already reaching 
out towards the swan's beak of the cafe; many times he wan- 
dered about, dreaming of the king turned up and of quint and 
quatorze. But he almost always courageously returned home; 
and as he loved Pierette more through every sacrifice that he 
made for her, he embraced her more fondly every day. For he 
did embrace her. She was no longer his servant. When 
once she stood before him at the table, calling him " Monsieur," 
and so respectful in her bearing, he could not stand it, but seizing 
her by her two hands, he said to her, eagerly: 

" First embrace me, and then sit down and do me the pleasure 
of speaking familiarly, confound it!" 

And so to-day it is accomplished. Meeting a child has saved 
that man from an ignominious age. 

He has substituted for his old vices a young passion. He 
adores the little lame girl who skips around him in his room, 
which is comfortable and well furnished. 

He has already taught Pierette to read, and, moreover, re- 
calling his calligraphy as a sergeant-major, he has set her copies 



468 THE CAPTAIN'S VICES 

in writing. It is his greatest joy when the child, bending at- 
tentively over her paper, and sometimes making a blot which 
she quickly licks up with her tongue, has succeeded in copying 
all the letters of an interminable adverb in merit. His uneasiness 
is in thinking that he is growing old and has nothing to leave his 
adopted child. 

And so he becomes almost a miser; he theorizes; he wishes 
to give up his tobacco, although Pierette herself fills and lights 
his pipe for him. He counts on saving from his slender income 
enough to purchase a little stock of fancy goods. Then when 
he is dead she can live an obscure and tranquil life, hanging up 
somewhere in the back room of the small shop an old cross of 
the Legion of Honor, her souvenir of the Captain. 

Every day he goes to walk with her on the rampart. Some- 
times they are passed by folks who are strangers in the village, 
who look with compassionate surprise at the old soldier, spared 
from the wars, and the poor lame child. And he is moved — 
oh, so pleasantly, almost to tears — when one of the passers-by 
whispers, as they pass: 

"Poor father! Yet how pretty his daughter is." 



XXXIII. A COWARD 1 

Guy de Maupassant 

[[This story and the two following concern the moral and physical problem of the 
duel. The duel itself has almost gone out of fashion. Like the military caste 
with its arbitrary ideas of right and privilege, which it really stands for, the duel is 
on the way to disorganization. (It is disorganization by which the world progresses 
just as much as by organization.) Like the military caste, again, with its scant diplo- 
macies and its wars, the duel with its minor etiquette and its single encounters, 
failed to solve moral problems. But it still serves to typify them. This story is 
discussed in the introduction, pages 401-402 .J 

In society they called him "the handsome Signoles." His 
name was Viscount Gontran Joseph de Signoles. 

An orphan and the possessor of a sufficient fortune, as the 
saying goes, he cut a dash. He had a fine figure and bearing, 
enough conversation to make people credit him with cleverness, 
a certain natural grace, an air of nobility and of pride, a gallant 
mustache, and a gentle eye — a thing which pleases women. 

In the drawing-rooms he was in great request, much sought 
after as a partner for the waltz; and he inspired among men that 
smiling hatred which they always cherish for others of an ener- 
getic figure. He passed a happy and tranquil life, in a comfort 
of mind which was most complete. It was known, that he was 
a good fencer, and as a pistol-shot even better. 

" If ever I fight a duel," said he, " I shall choose pistols. With 
that weapon I am sure of killing my man." 

Now, one night, having accompanied two young ladies, his 
friends, escorted by their husbands, to the theatre, he invited 
them all after the play to take an ice at Tortoni's. They had 
been there for several minutes, when he perceived that a gentle- 
man seated at a neighboring table was staring obstinately at 

1 Reprinted from The Odd Number, Thirteen Tales by Guy de Maupassant (trans- 
lated by Jonathan Sturges) with the kind permission of Harper and Brothers. 



470 • A COWARD 

one of his companions. She seemed put out, uneasy, lowered 
her head. At last she said to her husband: 

" There is a man who is looking me out of countenance. I 
do not know him; do you?" 

The husband, who had seen nothing, raised his eyes, but 
declared: 

"No, not at all." 

The young lady continued, half smiling, half vexed: 

"It is very unpleasant; that man is spoiling my ice." 

Her husband shrugged his shoulders: 

"Bast! don't pay any attention to it. If we had to occupy 
ourselves about every insolent fellow that we meet we should 
never have done." 

But the viscount had risen brusquely. He could not allow 
that this stranger should spoil an ice which he had offered. 
It was to him that this insult was addressed, because it was 
through him and on his account that his friends had entered this 
cafe. So the matter concerned him only. 

He advanced towards the man and said to him: 

"You have, sir, a manner of looking at those ladies which I 
cannot tolerate. I beg of you to be so kind as to cease from this 
insistence." 

The other answered: 

"You are going to mind your own business, curse you." 

The viscount said, with close-pressed teeth : 

"Take care, sir, you will force me to pass bounds." 

The gentleman answered but one word, a foul word, which 
rang from one end of the cafe to the other, and, like a metal 
spring, caused every guest to execute a sudden movement. 
All those whose backs were turned wheeled round ; all the others 
raised their heads; three waiters pivoted upon their heels like 
tops; the two ladies at the desk gave a jump, then turned 
round their whole bodies from the waists up, as if they had been 
two automata obedient to the same crank. 



GUY DE MAUPASSANT 471 

A great silence made itself felt. Then, on a sudden, a dry 
sound cracked in the air. The viscount had slapped his adver- 
sary's face. Every one rose to interfere. Cards were exchanged 
between the two. 

When the viscount had reached home he paced his room for 
several minutes with great, quick strides. He was too much 
agitated to reflect at all. One single idea was hovering over his 
mind — "a duel" — without arousing in him as yet an emotion 
of any sort. He had done that which he ought to have done; 
he had shown himself to be that which he ought to be. People 
would talk about it, they would praise him, they would congratu- 
late him. He repeated in a loud voice, speaking as one speaks 
when one's thoughts are very much troubled: 

"What a brute the fellow was!" 

Then he sat down and began to reflect. He must find seconds, 
the first thing in the morning. Whom should he choose? He 
thought over those men of his acquaintance who had the best 
positions, who were the most celebrated. He finally selected 
the Marquis de la Tour-Noire, and the Colonel Bourdin, a 
nobleman and a soldier. Very good indeed ! Their names would 
sound well in the papers. He perceived that he was thirsty, 
and he drank, one after another, three glasses of water; then he 
began again to walk up and down the room. He felt himself 
full of energy. If he blustered a little, if he showed himself 
resolute at all points, if he demanded rigorous and dangerous 
conditions, if he insisted on a serious duel, very serious, terrible, 
his opponent would probably withdraw and make apologies. 

He picked up the card which he had pulled out of his pocket 
and thrown on the table, and he reread it with a single glance. 
He had already done so at the cafe and in the cab, by the glimmer 
of every street lamp, on his way home. " Georges Lamil, 51 
Rue Moncey." Nothing more. 

He examined these assembled letters, which seemed to him 



472 A COWARD 

mysterious, and full of a confused meaning. Georges Lamil? 
Who was this man? What had he been about? Why had he 
stared at that woman in such a way? Was it not revolting that 
a stranger, an unknown, should so come and trouble your life, 
all on a sudden, simply because he had been pleased to fix his 
eyes insolently upon a woman that you knew? And the vis- 
count repeated yet again, in a loud voice: 

"What a brute!" 

Then he remained motionless, upright, thinking, his look ever 
planted on the card. A rage awoke in him against this piece 
of paper, an anger full of hate in which was mixed a strange, 
uneasy feeling. It was stupid, this whole affair! He took a 
little penknife which lay open to his hand, and pricked it into the 
middle of the printed name, as if he had poniarded some one. 

However, they must fight! He considered himself as indeed 
the insulted party. And, having thus the right, should he choose 
the pistol or the sword? With the sword he risked less ; but with 
the pistol he had the chance of making his adversary withdraw. 
It is very rare that a duel with swords proves mortal, a mutual 
prudence preventing the combatants from engaging near 
enough for the point of a rapier to enter very deep. With the 
pistol he risked his life seriously; but he might also come out of 
the affair with all the honors of the situation, and without 
going so far as an actual meeting. 

He said: 

"I must be firm. He will be afraid." 

The sound of his voice made him tremble, and he looked about 
him. He felt himself very nervous. He drank another glass 
of water, then began to undress himself to go to bed. 

As soon as he was in bed, he blew out the light and shut his 
eyes. 

He thought: 

"I've got all day to-morrow to attend to my affairs. I'd 
better sleep first so as to be calm." 



GUY DE MAUPASSANT 473 

He was very warm under the bedclothes, but he could not 
manage to doze off. He turned and twisted, remained five 
minutes on his back, then placed himself on his left side, then 
rolled over to his right. 

He was still thirsty. He got up again to drink. Then an 
anxiety seized him: 

" Shall I be afraid?" 

Why did his heart fall to beating so madly at each of the 
well-known noises of his chamber? When the clock was about 
to strike, the little grinding sound of the spring which stands 
erect caused him to give a start; and for several seconds after 
that he was obliged to open his mouth to breathe, he remained 
so much oppressed. 

He set himself to reasoning with himself upon the possibility 
of this thing: 

"Shall I be afraid?" 

No, certainly not, he would not be afraid, because he was 
resolute to go to the end, because he had his will firmly fixed 
to fight and not to tremble. But he felt so deeply troubled 
that he asked himself: 

"Can a man be afraid in spite of him?" 

And this doubt invaded him, this uneasiness, this dread. If 
some force stronger than his will, if some commanding, and irre- 
sistible power should conquer him, what would happen? Yes, 
what could happen? He should certainly appear upon the field, 
since he willed to do it. But if he trembled? But if he fainted? 
And he thought of his situation, of his reputation, of his name. 

And a curious necessity seized him on a sudden to get up 
again and look at himself in the mirror. He refit his candle. 
When he perceived his face reflected in the polished glass he 
hardly recognized himself, and it seemed to him that he had 
never seen this man before. His eyes appeared enormous; 
and he was pale, surely he was pale, very pale. 

He remained upright before the mirror. He put out his 



474 A COWARD 

tongue as if to test the state of his health, and all on a sudden 
this thought entered into him after the fashion of a bullet: 

"The day after to-morrow, at this time, I shall perhaps be 
dead." 

And his heart began again to beat furiously. 

"The day after to-morrow, at this time, I shall perhaps be 
dead. This person before me, this ' I ' which I see in this glass, 
will exist no longer. What! here I am, I am looking at myself, 
I feel myself to live, and in twenty-four hours I shall be laid 
to rest upon this couch, dead, my eyes shut, cold, inanimate, 
gone." 

He turned towards his bed and he distinctly saw himself 
on the back in the same sheets which he had just left. He had 
the hollow face which dead men have, and that slackness to the 
hands which will never stir more. 

So he grew afraid of his bed, and, in order not to look at it 
again, he passed into his smoking-room. He took a cigar 
mechanically, lit it, and again began to walk the room. He was 
cold; he went towards the bell to wake his valet; but he stopped, 
his hand lifted towards the bell-rope: 

"That fellow will see that I am afraid." 

And he did not ring, he made the fire himself. WTien his 
hands touched anything they trembled slightly, with a nervous 
shaking. His head wandered; his troubled thoughts became 
fugitive, sudden, melancholy; an intoxication seized on his 
spirit as if he had been drunk. 

And ceaselessly he asked himself: 

"What shall I do? What will become of me?" 

His whole body vibrated, jerky tremblings ran over it; he 
got up, and approaching the window, he opened the curtains. 

The day was coming, a day of summer. The rosy sky made 
rosy the city, the roofs, and the walls. A great fall of tenuous 
light, like a caress from the rising sun, enveloped the awakened 
world ; and, with this glimmer, a hope, gay, rapid, brutal, seized 



GUY DE MAUPASSANT 475 

on the heart of the viscount! Was he mad to let himself be so 
struck down by fear, before anything had even been decided, 
before his seconds had seen those of this Georges Lamil, before 
he yet knew if he was going to fight at all? 

He made his toilet, dressed himself, and left the house with 
a firm step. 

He repeated to himself, while walking: 

"I- must be decided, very decided. I must prove that I am 
not afraid." 

His seconds, the marquis and the colonel, put themselves at 
his disposition, and after having pressed his hands energetically, 
discussed the conditions of the meeting. 

The colonel asked: 

"You want a serious duel?" 

The viscount answered: 

"Very serious." 

The marquis took up the word. 

"You insist on pistols?" 

"Yes." 

"Do you leave us free to settle the rest?" 

The viscount articulated with a dry, jerky voice : 

"Twenty paces, firing at the word, lifting the arm instead of 
lowering it. Exchange of shots until some one is badly 
wounded." 

The colonel declared, in a satisfied tone : 

"Those are excellent conditions. You are a good shot; 
the chances are all in your favor." 

And they separated. The viscount returned home to wait 
for them. His agitation, which had been temporarily calmed, 
was now increasing with every moment. He felt along his 
arms, along his legs, in his chest, a kind of quivering, a kind of 
continuous vibration; he could not stay in one place, neither 
sitting down nor standing up. He had no longer a trace of 
moisture in his mouth, and he made at every instant a 



476 A COWARD 

noisy movement of the tongue as if to unglue it from his 
palate. 

He tried to take his breakfast, but he could not eat. Then 
he thought of drinking in order to give himself courage, and had 
a decanter of rum brought him, from which he gulped down, 
one after the other, six little glasses. 

A warmth, like a burn, seized on him. It was followed as 
soon by a giddiness of the soul. He thought: 

"I know the way. Now it will go all right." 

But at the end of an hour he had emptied the decanter, and 
his state of agitation was become again intolerable. He felt 
a wild necessity to roll upon the ground, to cry, to bite. 

Evening fell. 

The sound of the door-bell caused him such a feeling of 
suffocation that he had not the strength to rise to meet his 
seconds. 

He did not even dare to talk to them any longer — to say 
"How do you do?" to pronounce a single word, for fear lest 
they divine all from the alteration in his voice. 

The colonel said: 

"Everything is settled according to the conditions which you 
fixed. Your opponent at first insisted on the privileges of the 
offended party, but he yielded almost immediately, and has 
agreed to everything. His seconds are two officers. 

The viscount said: 

"Thank you." 

The marquis resumed: 

"Excuse us if we only just run in and out, but we've still 
a thousand things to do. We must have a good doctor, because 
the duel is not to stop till after some one is badly hit, and you 
know there 's no trifling with bullets. A place must be appointed 
near some house where we can carry the wounded one of the two, 
if it is necessary, etc.; it will take us quite two or three hours 
more." 



GUY DE MAUPASSANT 477 

The viscount articulated a second time: 

"Thank you." 

The colonel asked: 

"You're all right? You're calm?" 

"Yes, quite calm, thanks." 

The two men retired. 

When he felt himself alone again, it seemed to him that he 
was going mad. His servant having lit the lamps, he sat down 
before his table to write some letters. After tracing at the 
top of a page, "This is my Will," he got up again and drew off, 
feeling incapable of putting two ideas together, of taking a single 
resolution, of deciding anything at all. 

And so he was going to fight a duel ! He could no longer escape 
that. What could be passing within him? He wanted to fight, 
he had that intention and that resolution firmly fixed; and 
he felt very plainly that, notwithstanding all the effort of his 
mind and all the tension of his will, he would not be able to re- 
tain strength enough to go as far as the place of the encounter. 
He tried to fancy the combat, his own attitude, and the bearing 
of his adversary. 

From time to time, his teeth struck against one another in 
his mouth with a little dry noise. He tried to read, and took 
up de Chateauvillard's duelling code. Then he asked himself: 

"My adversary, has he frequented the shooting-galleries? 
Is he well known? What's his class? How can I find out?" 

He remembered the book by Baron de Vaux upon pistol- 
shooters, and he searched through it from one end to the other. 
Georges Lamil was not mentioned. But, however, if the man 
had not been a good shot, he would not have accepted im- 
mediately that dangerous weapon and those conditions, which 
were mortal. 

His pistol-case by Gastinne Renette lay on a little round table. 
As he passed he opened it and took out one of the pistols, then 



478 A COWARD 

placed himself as if to shoot, and raised his arm ; but he trembled 
from head to foot, and the barrel shook in all directions. 

Then he said: 

"It is impossible. I cannot fight like this." 

At the end of the barrel he regarded that little hole, black 
and deep, which spits out death; he thought of dishonor, of the 
whispers in the clubs, of the laughter in the drawing-rooms, 
of the disdain of women, of the allusions in the papers, of the 
insults which would be thrown at him by cowards. 

He went on staring at the pistol, and raising the hammer, 
he suddenly saw a priming glitter beneath it like a little red 
flame. The pistol had been left loaded, by chance, by over- 
sight. And he experienced from that a confused inexplicable 

joy- 

If in the presence of the other he had not the calm and noble 
bearing which is fit, he would be lost forever. He would be 
spotted, marked with a sign of infamy, hunted from society. 
And he should not have that calm and bold bearing; he knew 
it, he felt it. And yet he was really brave, because he wanted 
to fight! He was brave, because — The thought which just 
grazed him did not even complete itself in his spirit, but, open- 
ing his mouth wide, he brusquely thrust the pistol-barrel into 
the very bottom of his throat and pressed upon the trigger. . . . 

When his valet ran in, attracted by the report, he found him 
dead, on his back. A jet of blood had spattered the white 
paper on the table and made a great red stain below the four 
words: 

"This is my Will" 



XXXIV. BAZAROV'S DUEL 1 
Ivan Turgenev 

[Bazarov is a young Russian student of advanced scientific ideas. He repre- 
sents the pitiless and somewhat crude materialism of the Nihilists of the eighteen 
sixties. Himself the son of a peasant, he scorns the refinements of traditional be- 
lief and social custom. He goes to visit his college friend Arkady and there meets 
Arkady's uncle, Pavel Petrovitch, the acme of aristocratic elegance in manner and 
of ultra conservatism in ideas. To him Bazarov's ideas, indeed his very presence, 
seems a piece of impudence. Bazarov, for his part, views Pavel Petrovitch as an 
antique survival. The older man's attitude immediately becomes one of hostility; 
that of the younger man one of amused contempt. When finally Pavel Petrovitch 
sees the upstart kiss his brother's mistress, Fenitchka, he enters his room and 
challenges him to a duel in the manner described in the present extract.]] 

Two hours later Pavel Petrovitch knocked at Bazarov's door. 

"I must apologize for hindering you in your scientific pur- 
suits," he began, seating himself on a chair in the window, 
and leaning with both hands on a handsome walking-stick with 
an ivory knob (he usually walked without a stick), "but I am 
constrained to beg you to spare me five minutes of your time 
... no more." 

"All my time is at your disposal," answered Bazarov, over 
whose face there passed a quick change of expression directly 
Pavel Petrovitch crossed the threshold. 

"Five minutes will be enough for me. I have come to put 
a single question to you." 

"A question? What is it about?" 

"I will tell you, if you will kindly hear me out. At the 
commencement of your stay in my brother's house, before I 
had renounced the pleasure of conversing with you, it was my 
fortune to hear your opinions on many subjects; but so far as 

1 Reprinted from Fathers and Children (translated by Constance Garnett) with 
the kind permission of The Macmillan Company. 



480 BAZAROV'S DUEL 

my memory serves, neither between us, nor in my presence, 
was the subject of single combats and duelling in general 
broached. Allow me to hear what are your views on that sub- 
ject?" 

Bazarov, who had risen to meet Pavel Petrovitch, sat down 
on the edge of the table and folded his arms. 

"My view is," he said, "that from the theoretical standpoint, 
duelling is absurd; from the practical standpoint, now — it's 
quite a different matter." 

"That is, you mean to say, if I understand you right, that 
whatever your theoretical views on duelling, you would not in 
practice allow yourself to be insulted without demanding satis- 
faction?" 

"You have guessed my meaning absolutely. " 

"Very good. I am very glad to hear you say so. Your words 
relieve me from a state of incertitude." 

"Of uncertainty, you mean to say." 

"That is all the same; I express myself so as to be understood; 
I . . . am not a seminary rat. Your words save me from a 
rather deplorable necessity. I have made up my mind to fight 
you." 

Barazov opened his eyes wide. "Me?" 

"Undoubtedly." 

"But what for, pray?" 

"I could explain the reason to you," began Pavel Petrovitch, 
"but I prefer to be silent about it. To my idea your presence 
here is superfluous; I cannot endure you; I despise you; and 
if that is not enough for you ..." 

Pavel Petrovitch's eyes glittered . . . Bazarov's too were 
flashing. 

"Very good," he assented. "No need of further explanations. 
You've a whim to try your chivalrous spirit upon me. I might 
refuse you this pleasure, but — so be it!" 

"I am sensible of my obligation to you," replied Pavel Petro- 



IVAN TURGENEV 481 

vitch; "and may reckon then on your accepting my challenge 
without compelling me to resort to violent measures." 

"That means, speaking without metaphor, to that stick?" 
Bazarov remarked cooly. "That is precisely correct. It's 
quite unnecessary for you to insult me. Indeed, it would not 
be a perfectly safe proceeding. You can remain a gentleman. 
... I accept your challenge, too, like a gentleman." 

"That is excellent," observed Pavel Petrovitch, putting his 
stick in the corner. "We will say a few words directly about 
the conditions of our duel; but I should like first to know 
whether you think it necessary to resort to the formality of 
a trifling dispute, which might serve as a pretext for my 
challenge?" 

"No; it's better without formalities." 

"I think so myself. I presume it is also out of place to go into 
the real grounds of our difference. We cannot endure one an- 
other. What more is necessary?" 

"What more, indeed?" repeated Bazarov ironically. 

"As regards the conditions of the meeting itself, seeing that 
we shall have no seconds — for where could we get them?" 

"Exactly so; where could we get them?" 

"Then I have the honor to lay the following proposition be- 
fore you: The combat to take place early to-morrow, at six, 
let us say, behind the copse, with pistols, at a distance of ten 
paces. . . ." 

"At ten paces? that will do; we hate one another at that 
distance." 

"We might have it eight," remarked Pavel Petrovitch. 

"We might." 

"To fire twice; and, to be ready for any result, let each put 
a letter in his pocket, in which he accuses himself of his end." 

"Now, that I don't approve of at all," observed Bazarov. 
"There's a slight flavor of the French novel about it, something 
not very plausible." 



482 BAZAROV'S DUEL 

"Perhaps. You will agree, however, that it would be un- 
pleasant to incur a suspicion of murder?" 

"I agree as to that. But there is a means or avoiding that 
painful reproach. We shall have no seconds, but we can have 
a witness." 

"And whom, allow me to inquire?" 

"Why, Piotr." 

"WhatPiotr?" 

"Your brother's valet. He's a man who has attained to the 
acme of contemporary culture, and he will perform his part with 
all the comilfo (comme ilfaut) necessary in such cases." 

"I think you are joking, sir." 

"Not at all. If you think over my suggestion, you will be 

convinced that it's full of common-sense and simplicity. You 

. can't hide a candle under a bushel; but I'll undertake to 

prepare Piotr in a fitting manner, and bring him on to the field 

of battle." 

"You persist in jesting still," Pavel Petrovitch declared, 
getting up from his chair. "But after the courteous readiness 
you have shown me, I have no right to pretend to lay down. . . . 
And so, everything is arranged. . . . By the way, perhaps you 
have no pistols?" 

"How should I have pistols, Pavel Petrovitch? I'm not 
in the army." 

"In that case, I offer you mine. You may rest assured that 
it's five years now since I shot with them." 

"That's a very consoling piece of news." 

Pavel Petrovitch took up his stick. . . . "And now, my 
dear sir, it only remains for me to thank you and to leave you 
to your studies. I have the honor to take leave of you." 

"Till we have the pleasure of meeting again, my dear sir," 
said Bazarov, conducting his visitor to the door. 

Pavel Petrovitch went out, while Bazarov remained standing 
a minute before the door, and suddenly exclaimed, "Pish, well, 



IVAN TURGENEV 483 

I'm dashed! how fine, and how foolish! A pretty farce we've 
been through! Like trained dogs dancing on their hind-paws. 
But to decline was out of the question; why, I do believe he'd 
have struck me, and then ..." (Bazarov turned white at the 
very thought; all his pride was up in arms at once) — "then 
it might have come to my strangling him like a cat." He went 
back to his miscroscope, but his heart was beating, and the com- 
posure necessary for taking observations had disappeared. 
"He caught sight of us to-day," he thought; "but would he 
really act like this on his brother's account? And what a mighty 
matter is it — a kiss? There must be something else in it. 
Bah! isn't he perhaps in love with her himself? To be sure, 
he's in love; it's as clear as day. What a complication! It's 
a nuisance!" he decided at last; "It's a bad job, look at it 
which way you will. In the first place, to risk a bullet through 
one's brains, and in any case to go away. ... It's a bad job, 
an awfully bad job." 

The day passed in a kind of peculiar stillness and languor. 
Fenitchka gave no sign of her existence; she sat in her little 
room like a mouse in its hole. Nikolai Petrovitch had a care- 
worn air. He had just heard that blight had begun to appear 
in his wheat, upon which he had in particular rested his hopes. 
Pavel Petrovitch overwhelmed every one, even Prokofitch, 
with his icy courtesy. Bazarov began a letter to his father, 
but tore it up, and threw it under the table. 

"If I die," he thought, "they will find it out; but I'm not 
going to die. No, I shall struggle along in this world a good 
while yet." He gave Piotr orders to come to him on important 
business the next morning directly it was light. Piotr imagined 
that he wanted to take him to Petersburg with him. Bazarov 
went late to bed, and all night long he was harassed by dis- 
ordered dreams. . . . Piotr waked him up at four o'clock; 
he dressed at once, and went out with him. 

It was a lovely, fresh morning; tiny flecked clouds hovered 



484 BAZAROV'S DUEL 

overhead in little curls of foam on the pale clear blue; a fine 
dew lay in drops on the leaves and grass, and sparkled like silver 
on the spiders' webs; the damp, dark earth seemed still to keep 
traces of the rosy dawn; from the whole sky the songs of larks 
came pouring in showers. Bazarov walked as far as the copse, 
sat down in the shade at its edge, and only then disclosed to 
Piotr the nature of the service he expected of him. The re- 
fined valet was mortally alarmed; but Bazarov soothed him 
by the assurance that he would have nothing to do but 
stand at a distance and look on, and that he would not incur 
any sort of responsibility. "And meantime," he added, "only 
think what an important part you have to play!" Piotr threw 
up his hands, looked down, and leaned against a birch-tree, 
looking green with terror. 

The road from Maryino skirted the copse; a light dust 
lay on it, untouched by wheel or foot since the previous day. 
Bazarov unconsciously stared along this road, picked and gnawed 
a blade of grass, while he kept repeating to himself, "What a 
piece of foolery!" The chill of the early morning made him 
shiver twice. . . . Piotr looked at him dejectedly, but Bazarov 
only smiled; he was not afraid. 

The tramp of horses' hoofs was heard along the road. . . . 
A peasant came into sight from behind the trees. He was driv- 
ing before him two horses hobbled together, and as he passed 
Bazarov he looked at him rather strangely, without touching 
his cap, which it was easy to see disturbed Piotr, as an unlucky 
omen. "There's some one else up early too," thought Bazarov; 
"but he at least has got up for work, while we . . . ." 

"'Fancy the gentleman's coming," Piotr faltered suddenly. 

Bazarov raised his head and saw Pavel Petrovitch. Dressed 
in a light check jacket and snow-white trousers, he was walking 
rapidly along the road; under his arm he carried a box wrapped 
up in green cloth. 

"I beg your pardon, I believe I have kept you waiting," 



IVAN TURGENEV 485 

he observed, bowing first to Bazarov, then to Piotr, whom he 
treated respectfully at that instant as representing something 
in the nature of a second. "I was unwilling to wake my 
man." 

"It doesn't matter," answered Bazarov; "we've only just 
arrived ourselves." 

"Ah! so much the better!" Pavel Petrovitch took a look round. 
"There 's no one in sight; no one hinders us. We can proceed?" 

"Let us proceed." 

"You do not, I presume, desire any fresh explanations?" 

"No, I don't." 

"Would you like to load?" inquired Pavel Petrovitch, taking 
the pistols out of the box. 

"No; you load, and I will measure out the paces. My 
legs are longer," added Bazarov with a smile. "One, two, three." 

"Yevgeny Vassilyevitch," Piotr faltered with an effort (he 
was shaking as though he were in a fever), "say what you like, 
I am going farther off." 

"Four . . . five. . . . Good. Move away, my good fellow, 
move away; you may get behind a tree even, and stop up your 
ears, only don't shut your eyes ; and if any one falls, run and pick 
him up. Six. . . seven. . . eight. . . " Bazarov stopped. "Is 
that enough?" he said, turning to Pavel Petrovitch; "or shall 
I add two paces more?" 

"As you like," replied the latter, pressing down the second 
bullet. 

"Well, we'll make it two paces more." Bazarov drew a 
line on the ground with the toe of his boot. "There's the 
barrier then. By the way, how many paces may each of us go 
back from the barrier? That's an important question too. 
That point was not discussed yesterday." 

"I imagine, ten," replied Pavel Petrovitch, handing Bazarov 
both pistols. "Will you be so good as to choose?" 

"I will be so good. But, Pavel Petrovitch, you must admit 



486 BAZAROV'S DUEL 

our combat is singular to the point of absurdity. Only look at 
the countenance of our second." 

"You are disposed to laugh at everything," answered Pavel 
Petrovitch. "I acknowledge the strangeness of our duel, 
but I think it my duty to warn you that I intend to fight seri- 
ously. A bon entendeur, salutV 

"Oh! I don't doubt that we've made up our minds to make 
away with each other; but why not laugh too and unite utile 
dulci? You talk to me in French, while I talk to you in Latin." 

"I am going to fight in earnest," repeated Pavel Petrovitch, 
and he walked off to his place. Bazarov on his side counted off 
ten paces from the barrier, and stood still. 

"Are you ready?" asked Pavel Petrovitch. 

"Perfectly." 

"We can approach one another." 

Barazov moved slowly forward, and Pavel Petrovitch, his 
left hand thrust in his pocket, walked towards him, gradually 
raising the muzzle of his pistol. . . . "He's aiming straight at 
my nose," thought Bazarov, "and doesn't he blink down it 
carefully, the ruffian! Not an agreeable sensation though. 
I'm going to look at his watch chain." 

Something whizzed sharply by his very ear, and at the same 
instant there was the sound of a shot. "I heard it, so it must be 
all right," had time to flash through Bazarov 's brain. He took 
one more step, and without taking aim, pressed the spring. 

Pavel Petrovitch gave a slight start, and clutched at his thigh. 
A stream of blood began to trickle down his white trousers. 

Bazarov flung aside the pistol, and went up to his antagonist. 
"Are you wounded?" he said. 

"You had the right to call me up to the barrier," said Pavel 
Petrovitch, "but that's of no consequence. According to our 
agreement, each of us has the right to one more shot." 

"All right, but, excuse me, that'll do another time," answered 
Bazarov, catching hold of Pavel Petrovitch, who was beginning 



IVAN TURGENEV 487 

to turn pale. "Now, I'm not a duellist, but a doctor, and I 
must have a look at your wound before anything else. Piotr! 
come here, Piotr! where have you got to?" 

"That's all nonsense. ... I need no one's aid," Pavel 
Petrovitch declared jerkily, "and ... we must . . . again 
..." He tried to pull at his moustaches, but his hand failed 
him, his eyes grew dim, and he lost consciousness. 

"Here's a pretty pass! A fainting fit! What next!" Baza- 
rov cried unconsciously, as he laid Pavel Petrovitch on the 
grass. "Let's have a look at what's wrong." He pulled out 
a handkerchief, wiped away the blood, and began feeling round 
the wound. . . . "The bone's not touched," he muttered 
through his teeth; "the ball didn't go deep; one muscle, vastus 
externus, grazed. He'll be dancing about in three weeks! . . . 
And to faint! Oh, these nervous people, how I hate them! 
My word, what a delicate skin!" 

"Is he killed?" the quaking voice of Piotr came rustling 
behind his back. 

Bazarov looked round. "Go for some water as quick as you 
can, my good fellow, and he'll outlive us yet." 

But the modern servant seemed not to understand his words, 
and he did not stir. Pavel Petrovitch slowly opened his eyes. 
"He will die!" whispered Piotr, and he began crossing himself. 

"You are right. . . . What an imbecile countenance!" 
remarked the wounded gentleman with a forced smile. 

"Well, go for the water, damn you!" shouted Bazarov. 

"No need. ... It was a momentary vertigo. . . . Help 
me to sit up . . . there, that 's right. ... I only need something 
to bind up this scratch, and I can reach home on foot, or else 
you can send a droshky for me. The duel, if you are willing, 
shall not be renewed. You have behaved honorably ... to- 
day, to-day — observe." 

"There's no need to recall the past," rejoined Bazarov; 
"and as regards the future, it's not worth while for you to trouble 



488 BAZAROV'S DUEL 

your head about that either, for I intend being off without 
delay. Let me bind up your leg now; your wound's not 
serious, but it's always best to stop bleeding. But first I must 
bring this corpse to his senses." 

Bazarov shook Piotr by the collar, and sent him for a droshky. 

"Mind you don't frighten my brother," Pavel Petrovitch 
said to him; "don't dream of informing him." 

Piotr flew off; and while he was running for a droshky, the 
two antagonists sat on the ground and said nothing. Pavel 
Petrovitch tried not to look at Bazarov; he did not want to be 
reconciled to him in any case; he was ashamed of his own 
haughtiness, of his failure; he was ashamed of the whole position 
he had brought about, even while he felt it could not have ended 
in a more favorable manner. "At any rate, there will be no 
scandal," he consoled himself by reflecting, "and for that I 
am thankful." The silence was prolonged, a silence distressing 
and awkward. Both of them were ill at ease. Each was con- 
scious that the other understood him. That is pleasant to 
friends, and always very unpleasant to those who are not 
friends, especially when it is impossible either to have things 
out or to separate. 

"Haven't I bound up your leg too tight?" inquired Bazarov 
at last. 

"No, not at all; it's capital," answered Pavel Petrovitch; 
after a brief pause, he added, "There's no deceiving my 
brother; we shall have to tell him we quarrelled over politics." 

"Very good," assented Bazarov. "You can say I insulted 
all anglomaniacs." 

"That will do capitally. What do you imagine that man 
thinks of us now?" continued Pavel Petrovitch, pointing to the 
same peasant, who had driven the hobbled horses past Bazarov 
a few minutes before the duel, and going back again along the 
road, took off his cap at the sight of the "gentlefolk." 

"Who can tell!" answered Bazarov; "it's quite likely he 



IVAN TURGENEV 489 

thinks nothing. The Russian peasant is that mysterious un- 
known about whom Mrs. Radcliffe used to talk so much. Who 
is to understand him! He doesn't understand himself!" 

"Ah! so that's your idea!" Pavel Petrovitch began; and 
suddenly he cried, "Look what your fool of a Piotr has done! 
Here's my brother galloping up to us!" 

Bazarov turned round and saw the pale face of Nikolai 
Petrovitch, who was sitting in the droshky. He jumped out 
of it before it had stopped, and rushed up to his brother. 

"What does this mean?" he said in an agitated voice. "Yev- 
geny Vassilyitch, pray, what is this?" 

"Nothing," answered Pavel Petrovitch; "they have alarmed 
you for nothing. I had a little dispute with Mr. Bazarov, 
and I have had to pay for it a little." 

"But what was it all about, mercy on us!" 

"How can I tell you? Mr. Bazarov alluded disrespectfully 
to Sir Robert Peel. I must hasten to add that I am the only 
person to blame in all this, while Mr. Bazarov has behaved 
most honorably. I called him out." 

"But you're covered with blood, good Heavens!" 

"Well, did you suppose I had water in my veins? But this 
blood-letting is positively beneficial to me. Isn't that so, 
doctor? Help me to get into the droshky, and don't give way 
to melancholy. I shall be quite well to-morrow. That's it; 
capital. Drive on, coachman." 

Nikolai Petrovitch walked after the droshky; Bazarov was 
remaining where he was. . . . 

"I must ask you to look after my brother," Nikolai Petro- 
vitch said to him, "till we get another doctor from the town." 

Bazarov nodded his head without speaking. In an hour's 
time Pavel Petrovitch was already lying in bed with a 
skilfully bandaged leg. 



XXXV. AN UNFINISHED STORY 1 
O. Henry 

[This story is discussed from the point of view of its moral issue in the introduc- 
tion, pages 398-399. The writer's "problem" of how to see a story in life is also 
particularly well illustrated here. We have all thought and read and have prob- 
ably known personally of the temptations to which lonely, underpaid shop-girls in 
our cities are subjected. We have all seen the kind of life they lead before our 
eyes, and we can guess at the dullness of their evenings, if they have no money to 
spare and no friends, in a great city. So we recognize that a story, expressing the 
casual, yet recurrent, observation of so many of us would have a strong appeal. 
Any writer has, in this case, seen the life he wishes to write about. How will he see 
it as a story? 

The rule here is: do not go about the bush, begin with the thing you have in 
mind — the shop, the uniform, uninteresting daily round, the poor, easily nattered 
girl, anxious for a bit of cheerfulness as the right of her youth, the date with a 
"swell." Ask yourself now what Dulcie's life is really like — -what are her expenses, 
where does she live, where does she eat, what are her actual (not her possible) 
pleasures, what influences for good may probably be among them? Besides 
this, what is there in O. Henry's masterpiece ? Of course you may not be 
so lucky as to think of Lord Kitchener's strong-faced picture on her bureau 
as the thing that will save her, this time, at all events; but if you have 
observed Dulcie's life thoroughly enough , you will still have a story. A symbol 
of the good influences of the world will surely come to you, though probably 
not with the stroke of genius that selected Lord Kitchener's picture, and then 
left the story "unfinished. "2 

We no longer groan and heap ashes upon our heads when 
the flames of Tophet are mentioned. For, even the preachers 
have begun to tell us that God is radium, or ether or some 
scientific compound, and that the worst we wicked ones may 
expect is a chemical reaction. This is a pleasing hypothesis; 
but there lingers yet some of the old, goodly terror of orthodoxy. 

There are but two subjects upon which one may discourse 
with a free imagination, and without the possibility of being 
controverted. You may talk of your dreams; and you may 

1 Reprinted from The Four Million by special arrangement with Doubleday, 
Page and Company. 



O. HENRY 491 

tell what you heard a parrot say. Both Morpheus and the bird 
are incompetent witnesses; and your listener dare not attack 
your recital. The baseless fabric of a vision, then, shall furnish 
my theme — chosen with apologies and regrets instead of the 
more limited field of pretty Polly's small talk. 

I had a dream that was so far removed from the higher 
criticism that it had to do with the ancient, respectable, and 
lamented bar-of- judgment theory. 

Gabriel had played his trump ; and those of us who could not 
follow suit were arraigned for examination. I noticed at one 
side a gathering of professional bondsmen in solemn black and 
collars that buttoned behind; but it seemed there was some 
trouble about their real estate titles; and they did not appear 
to be getting any of us out. 

A fly cop — an angel policeman — flew over to me and took 
me by the left wing. Near at hand was a group of very pros- 
perous-looking spirits arraigned for judgment. 

"Do you belong with that bunch?" the policeman asked. 

"Who are they?" was my answer. 

"Why," said he, "they are — " 

But this irrelevant stuff is taking up space that the story should 
occupy. 

Dulcie worked in a department store. She sold Hamburg 
edging, or stuffed peppers, or automobiles, or other little trinkets 
such as they keep in department stores. Of what she earned, 
Dulcie received six dollars per week. The remainder was 
credited to her and debited to somebody else's account in the 

ledger kept by G . Oh, primal energy, you say, Reverend 

Doctor — Well then, in the Ledger of Primal Energy. 

During her first year in the store, Dulcie was paid five dollars 
per week. It would be instructive to know how she lived on 
that amount. Don't care? Very well; probably you are 
interested in larger amounts. Six dollars is a larger amount. 
I will tell you how she lived on six dollars per week. 



492 AN UNFINISHED STORY 

One afternoon at six, when Dulcie was sticking her hat-pin 
within an eighth of an inch of her medulla oblongata, she said to 
her chum, Sadie — the girl that waits on you with her left side: 

" Say, Sade, I made a date for dinner this evening with Piggy." 

"You never did!" exclaimed Sadie admiringly. "Well, ain't 
you the lucky one? Piggy's an awful swell; and he always 
takes a girl to swell places. He took Blanche up to the Hoffman 
House one evening, where they have swell music, and you see 
a lot of swells. You'll have a swell time, Dulcie." 

Dulcie hurried homeward. Her eyes were shining, and her 
cheeks showed the delicate pink of life's — real life's — ap- 
proaching dawn. It was Friday; and she had fifty cents left 
of her last week's wages. 

The streets were filled with the rush-hour floods of people. 
The electric lights of Broadway were glowing — calling moths 
from miles, from leagues, from hundreds of leagues out of dark- 
ness around to come in and attend the singeing school. Men in 
accurate clothes, with faces like those carved on cherry stones 
by the old salts in sailors' homes, turned and stared at Dulcie 
as she sped, unheeding, past them. Manhattan, the night- 
blooming cereus, was beginning to unfold its dead-white, heavy- 
odored petals. 

Dulcie stopped in a store where goods were cheap and bought 
an imitation lace collar with her fifty cents. That money was 
to have been spent otherwise — fifteen cents for supper, ten 
cents for breakfast, ten cents for lunch. Another dime was to 
be added to her small store of savings; and five cents was to be 
squandered for licorice drops — the kind that made your cheek 
look like the toothache, and last as long. The licorice was an 
extravagance — almost a carouse — but what is life without 
pleasures? 

Dulcie lived in a furnished room. There is this difference 
between a furnished room and a boarding-house. In a furnished 
room, other people do not know it when you go hungry. 



O. HENRY 493 

Dulcie went up to her room — the third floor back in a West 
Side brownstone-front. She lit the gas. Scientists tell us that 
the diamond is the hardest substance known. Their mistake. 
Landladies know of a compound beside which the diamond is as 
putty. They pack it in the tips of gas-burners; and one may 
stand on a chair and dig at it in vain until one's fingers are 
pink and bruised. A hairpin will not remove it; therefore let 
us call it immovable. So Dulcie lit the gas. In its one-fourth- 
candle-power glow we will observe the room. 

Couch-bed, dresser, table, washstand, chair — of this much 
the landlady was guilty. The rest was Dulcie's. On the dresser 
were her treasures — a gilt china vase presented to her by Sadie, 
a calendar issued by a pickle works, a book on the divination 
of dreams, some rice powder in a glass dish, and a cluster of 
artifical cherries tied with a pink ribbon. 

Against the wrinkly mirror stood pictures of General Kitch- 
ener, William Muldoon, the Duchess of Marlborough, and 
Benvenuto Cellini. Against one wall was a plaster of Paris 
plaque of an O'Callahan in a Roman helmet. Near it was a 
violent oleograph of a lemon-colored child assaulting an in- 
flammatory butterfly. This was Dulcie's final judgment in 
art; but it had never been upset. Her rest had never been 
disturbed by whispers of stolen copes; no critic had elevated 
his eyebrows at her infantile entomologist. 

Piggy was to call for her at seven. While she swiftly makes 
ready, let us discreetly face the other way and gossip. 

For the room, Dulcie paid two dollars per week. On week- 
days her breakfast cost ten cents; she made coffee and cooked 
an egg over the gaslight while she was dressing. On Sunday 
mornings she feasted royally on veal chops and pineapple 
fritters at "Billy's" restaurant, at a cost of twenty-five cents 
— and tipped the waitress ten cents. New York presents so 
many temptations for one to run into extravagance. She had 
her lunches in the department-store restaurant at a cost of 



494 AN UNFINISHED STORY 

sixty cents for the week; dinners were $i .05. The evening papers 
— show me a New Yorker going without his daily paper ! — 
came to six cents; and two Sunday papers — one for the per- 
sonal column and the other to read — were ten cents. The 
total amounts to $4.76. Now, one has to buy clothes, and — 

I give it up. I hear of wonderful bargains in fabrics, and 
of miracles performed with needle and thread; but I am in 
doubt. I hold my pen poised in vain when I would add to 
Dulcie 's life some of those joys that belong to woman by virtue 
of all the unwritten, sacred, natural, inactive ordinances of the 
equity of heaven. Twice she had been to Coney Island and had 
ridden the hobby-horses. 'Tis a weary thing to count your 
pleasures by summers instead of by hours. 

Piggy needs but a word. When the girls named him, an 
undeserving stigma was cast upon the noble family of swine. 
The words-of-three-letters lesson in the old blue spelling book 
begins with Piggy's biography. He was fat; he had the soul of 
a rat, the habits of a bat, and the magnanimity of a cat. . . . 
He wore expensive clothes, and was a connoisseur in starvation. 
He could look at a shop-girl and tell you to an hour how long 
it had been since she had eaten anything more nourishing than 
marshmallows and tea. He hung about the shopping districts, 
and prowled around in department stores with his invitations 
to dinner. Men who escort dogs upon the streets at the end of 
a string look down upon him. He is a type; I can dwell upon 
him no longer; my pen is not the kind intended for him; I am 
no carpenter. 

At ten minutes to seven Dulcie was ready. She looked at 
herself in the wrinkly mirror. The reflection was satisfactory. 
The dark blue dress, fitting without a wrinkle, the hat with its 
jaunty black feather, the but-slightly-soiled gloves — all repre- 
senting self-denial, even of food itself — were vastly becoming. 

Dulcie forgot everything else for a moment except that she 
was beautiful, and that life was about to lift a corner of its 



O. HENRY 495 

mysterious veil for her to observe its wonders. No gentleman 
had ever asked her out before. Now she was going for a brief 
moment into the glitter and exalted show. 

The girls said that Piggy was a "spender." There would be 
a grand dinner, and music, and splendidly dressed ladies to look 
at, and things to eat that strangely twisted the girls' jaws when 
they tried to tell about them. No doubt she would be asked 
out again. 

There was a blue pongee suit in a window that she knew — 
by saving twenty cents a week instead of ten, in — let 's see — 
Oh, it would run into years! But there was a second-hand 
store in Seventh Avenue where — 

Somebody knocked at the door. Dulcie opened it. The 
landlady stood there with a spurious smile, sniffing for cooking 
by stolen gas. 

"A gentleman's downstairs to see you," she said. "Name is 
Mr. Wiggins." 

By such epithet was Piggy known to unfortunate ones who 
had to take him seriously. 

Dulcie turned to the dresser to get her handkerchief; and 
then she stopped still, and bit her underlip hard. While looking 
in her mirror she had seen fairyland and herself, a princess, 
just awakening from a long slumber. She had forgotten one 
that was watching her with sad, beautiful, stern eyes — the only 
one there was to approve or condemn what she did. Straight 
and slender and tall, with a look of sorrowful reproach on his 
handsome, melancholy face, General Kitchener fixed his won- 
derful eyes on her out of his gilt photograph frame on the dresser. 

Dulcie turned like an automatic doll to the landlady. 

"Tell him I can't go," she said dully. "Tell him I'm sick, 
or something. Tell him I 'm not going out." 

After the door was closed and locked, Dulcie fell upon her bed, 
crushing her black tip, and cried for ten minutes. General 
Kitchener was her only friend. He was Dulcie's ideal of a 



496 AN UNFINISHED STORY 

gallant knight. He looked as if he might have a secret sorrow, 
and his wonderful moustache was a dream, and she was a little 
afraid of that stern yet tender look in his eyes. She used to have 
little fancies that he would call at the house sometime, and ask 
for her, with his sword clanking against his high boots. Once, 
when a boy was rattling a piece of chain against a lamp-post 
she had opened the window and looked out. But there was no 
use. She knew that General Kitchener was away over in Japan, 
leading his army against the savage Turks; and he would never 
step out of his gilt frame for her. Yet one look from him had 
vanquished Piggy that night. Yes, for that night. 

When her cry was over Dulcie got up and took off her best 
dress, and put on her old blue kimono. She wanted no dinner. 
She sang two verses of " Sammy." Then she became intensely 
interested in a little red speck on the side of her nose. And 
after that was attended to, she drew up a chair to the rickety 
table, and told her fortune with an old deck of cards. 

a The horrid, impudent thing!" she said aloud. "And I 
never gave him a word or a look to make him think it!" 

At nine o'clock Dulcie took a tin box of crackers and a little 
pot of raspberry jam out of her trunk, and had a feast. She 
offered General Kitchener some jam on a cracker; but he only 
looked at her as the sphinx would have looked at a butterfly — 
if there are butterflies in the desert. 

"Don't eat it if you don't want to," said Dulcie. "And 
don't put on so many airs and scold so with your eyes. I wonder 
if you 'd be so superior and snippy if you had to live on six dollars 
a week." 

It was not a good sign for Dulcie to be rude to General 
Kitchener. And then she turned Benvenuto Cellini face down- 
ward with a severe gesture. But that was not inexcusable; 
for she had always thought he was Henry VIII, and she did not 
approve of him. 

At half-past nine Dulcie took a last look at the pictures on 



0. HENRY 497 

the dresser, turned out the light, and skipped into bed. It's 
an awful thing to go to bed with a good-night look at General 
Kitchener, William Muldoon, the Duchess of Marlborough, 
and Benvenuto Cellini. 

This story really doesn't get anywhere at all. The rest of 
it comes later — sometime when Piggy asks Dulcie again to 
dine with him, and she is feeling lonelier than usual, and General 
Kitchener happens to be looking the other way; and then — 

As I said before, I" dreamed that I was standing near a crowd 
of prosperous-looking angels, and a policeman took me by the 
wing and asked if I belonged with them. 

"Who are they?" I asked. 

"Why," said he, "they are the men who hired working- 
girls, and paid 'em five or six dollars a week to live on. Are 
you one of the bunch?" 

"Not on your immortality," said I. "I'm only the fellow 
that set fire to an orphan asylum, and murdered a blind man for 
his pennies." 



